


Sanctify 🩸

by ProcrastinatingSab



Series: A series of Whumpy Events (Whumptober) [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Blood Loss, Branding, Drugging, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, More Hurt Than Comfort, Muzzles, Protective Malcolm Bright, Whump, Whumptober, many prompts, shackles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26779462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/pseuds/ProcrastinatingSab
Summary: When a source turns out nothing but a ploy to capture the Whitly siblings, Malcolm and Ainsley find themselves in the hands of a bloodthirsty cult.They plan to kill them, but not yet...Or.A multi-prompt whumptober fic!... Sorry, Malcolm :)
Series: A series of Whumpy Events (Whumptober) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949872
Comments: 153
Kudos: 115





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hannah_BWTM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannah_BWTM/gifts).



> Hello!! This is my first whumptober event and I'm so excited to take part in it!! 
> 
> This fic will have around 20 prompts, give or take! and they'll be posted in a different order than that in the prompt list! 
> 
> Whenever I post, I will be putting the prompt at the end notes so you can check it if you need to before reading! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, it'll be a wild ride.

When Ainsley called Malcolm and asked for help, he didn’t think they would end up getting in trouble. But then, it was Malcolm’s fault for being optimistic. When did he ever **_not_** get in trouble? 

** Chapter 1: The Beginning **

Ainsley’s interview with Martin Whitly had brought the once disgraced and long-forgotten serial killer back in the spotlight. Then his mother’s press conference about the Girl in the box's bracelet, and the discovered association between John Watkins and the surgeon, helped him _stay_ in the said spotlights. Once more, the world became invested in the surgeon, his victims, his personal life, and there was nothing Malcolm, or anyone could do about it. 

And while there was no doubt that Ainsley was the catalyst that accelerated this chain of events, Malcolm never blamed his sister for the troubles it caused— not even when she asked him to trust her and then immediately outed all his trauma to his father to get a ruse out of him— or for unwittingly giving Martin Whitly more power to manipulate him. No, Malcolm did not blame her. Ainsley didn’t mean it, and honestly, _did it really matter?_ He was damaged goods way before that. Broken.

And his mother had done enough, expressing exactly how much she hated the interview, and how horrible it all was. There was nothing else to do or say. Malcolm accepted that he just had to live through this and hoped that the commotion would die down. 

And it did, at least until Ainsley got a phone call from their father’s old college friend. A Mr. Mark Sherwood. The man claimed he knew about Martin’s activities back during his college days, that he wanted to tell Ainsley about it. He wanted an exclusive. 

She hadn’t told Malcolm about it until she researched the man and verified his story. Ainsley needed him to come with her because, according to her, Sherwood had two requests. The first was that he wanted to meet both of them, and the second was that they shouldn’t get the police involved.

In retrospect, that should have been a red flag. Malcolm shouldn’t have agreed to this meeting. But then again, he was curious about the secrets Martin Whitly kept. Malcolm needed to understand his father, and common sense was damned when the profiler's curiosity peaked. This was his first mistake. 

Mistake number two was when they agreed to meet the man in his turf, his house- which was two hours away from the city- without telling Gil or their mother about it. It was a decision they both took to avoid the drama that was sure to happen if any of them knew. A drama that was unnecessary since … after all, they were going away for a couple of hours and would be back before anyone even knew it. 

Their host, Mark Sherwood, was a petite nervous man, albeit friendly. He welcomed the siblings warmly and ushered them in the living room. The house looked ordinary _._ Maybe that’s what made Malcolm’s stomach clench with growing unease. 

It was _too ordinary._

There was not a shred of personality in its corners. The furniture, the fireplace, the walls all looked like a picture out of a catalog. There were no pictures on the walls, the surfaces were so clean almost unused, and the man looked like a guest in his own house, fidgeting like he didn’t know where the things were. 

Analyzing people was second nature to Malcolm. By studying their body language and reading the information between the lines, he gathered all his intel. Seeing a person’s house was a direct link to their soul…. but this man’s soul seemed … empty? Or rather …. _Fake_. 

Sherwood offered them a drink before they started, and when Malcolm declined, he insisted that he must, at least, have a cup of water. Nodding reluctantly, Malcolm watched the man disappear into the kitchen. He decided that the man's absence would give him more time to investigate. 

“I know we don’t usually do any investigating together, but do you ever stop fidgeting?” Ainsley whispered teasingly. 

“Something doesn’t feel right…” he mumbled as he craned his neck to watch their host.

“How so?” she shot back, a bit alarmed. 

“I don’t know, Ains. It just feels like the house is…” he fell quiet when the man came back, setting the drinks before them and taking his seat on the opposite chair. 

Ainsley gave Malcolm another inquiring glance, but he just shook his head. Maybe if he observed this man more, he could put his thumb on what irked him. 

The third mistake was when both of them drank what the man offered. Ainsley sipped on her orange juice while Malcolm took a few mouthfuls of the water; It didn’t taste any different, so why would there be any reason to panic? 

Ainsley started the recording device, and Sherwood began his story. At first, they were paying attention, following his every word. The man spoke about his life, how he met Martin Whitly, what classes they shared, and why he dropped of med school… but nothing substantial. It was a very long prologue and quite boring… and slowly, Malcolm was finding it hard to focus on what he said...mind drifting, eyes closing. He groggily noted that the story was even putting Ainsley to sleep. 

Why were they so sleepy? Malcolm wracked his progressively growing sluggish mind until he figured the puzzle. It was a little too late, though, because their host had stopped his story. Malcolm blinked, and suddenly Sherwood wasn’t sitting in his chair anymore. Beside him, Ainsley was sleeping soundly, her head resting on his shoulder. 

Sherwood _drugged them_. 

Though the panic had resulted in a surge of adrenaline, it wasn’t enough to counteract the numbness creeping through his veins. He needed to call Gil; he just had to grab his phone and dial his number. Malcolm tried to fight the effects of the drug running through his system, but it was futile. His hands wouldn’t obey him, and his mind was shutting down. 

Malcolm blinked again, and Mark Sherwood was back. He fished Malcolm’s phone out and took Ainsley’s purse. Unable to move, Malcolm watched through glazed and heavy eyes as the man left and then returned with half a dozen men. 

The whole interview was a setup. These people targeted him and Ainsley. They _wanted_ them here. 

Malcolm’s silent panic intensified, boiled inside his stomach, and the fear of what was about to happen overwhelmed him. When two men moved towards them and grabbed his little sister away, Malcolm’s heart roared in his chest. He concentrated all his will to move—he must protect his sister— but all he could do was twitch. Faint moans escaped his lips as he tried to fight even harder… fruitlessly. They were screwed. He knew it. Gil was going to kill them. That was also sure. 

But now, all Malcolm thought of was getting Ainsley _away_ from these people. He could handle whatever happened to him, but not her… she must be kept safe. 

A loud laugh startled him. Unable to turn his head, Malcolm darted his panicked eyes across the room until he found the owner of the laugh. A burly man with a thick mustache winked at him before breaking into another fit of laughter. It made Malcolm’s face burn with anger and helplessness because _this wasn’t funny. Nothing was funny about his sister’s limp body being carried by a bunch of guys while he lay there as motionless as the couch he sat on._

The burly man walked towards Malcolm with an amused smile. “Look at him squirming like a worm,” he looked at the other men and snorted. “You sure that’s the guy? He doesn’t look … _devilish.”_

Devilish. The word was definitely a clue, but Malcolm’s mind was slipping away, and he needed to focus on the here and now. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could still follow the two who had Ainsley, just enjoying the showdown. The man above him was grinning like an idiot. It was all too infuriating. 

Malcolm turned back to look at the man and managed the most menacing and defiant look he could ever muster, given his current state. If his mind were present, he would have known that such a move was exactly what the man desired... but he wasn’t. 

All it did was amuse Burly even further. Malcolm saw the man towering over him, and then his air supply was cut off. He writhed and twitched as the strong beefy hands wrapped around his throat and squeezed, slowly suffocating him. Too weak, Malcolm couldn’t even lift his arms to push the man away, to try and break free. He could hear a gasping choking sound that felt like his own, but he couldn’t tell for sure… he was slipping... his vision blackening, then the man removed his hands. 

Malcolm's eyes snapped wide open, and he hadn’t realized they were even closed. He heaved and gasped, eyes darting around the room. Ainsley and her kidnappers weren’t there anymore. _No no no no, he must have passed out_. A pained whine escaped his lips. 

“Holy shit, he’s still awake,” Burly chuckled incredulously. “He’s a tough one, ain’t he?” 

“The boy’s got the devil’s blood in him. More so than her. Knock him out if you must,” _Sherwood?_... replied. 

Again with the devil word. 

“With pleasure,” Burly chuckled and pushed a piece of cloth over his face. Malcolm tried to fight it, tried not to inhale… until he felt the punch in his stomach. He gasped, forgetting about the cloth pushed to his face as his body reacted on instinct, taking in a great gulp of air. Through the pain, he groggily registered the sweet smell of _chloroform,_ invading his nostrils. 

When his eyes fluttered closed this time…. they didn’t open again. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was for Whumptober Prompt No 22. DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU? Poisoned | **Drugged** | Withdrawal


	2. The Cell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta read by the amazing [ sonshineandshowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/works). Thank you <3
> 
> Check the end notes if you wish to know the prompts used in this chapter before reading it :)

**Chapter 2:** **The Cell**

_You’re my boy._

He was floating in a black sea plagued with distorted images of cabins and boxes, of his father and a basement. Phantom shadows and invisible fingers. Fragmented memories and events long locked and hidden... yearning to surface back to the light. A cacophony of hushed whispers and words he did not understand that suddenly morphed into a deep laughing sound. 

_He’s the devil’s son. It’s in his blood._

A mocking voice that he knew and loathed but could not place its owner. Hands like claws. Cold on his skin. Touching him.. _moving him._

He fought, but the black carpet that surrounded him was quicksand. He found himself sinking deeper and deeper. 

_Shit, how is he waking up again!_ Pain. 

The earth engulfed him, and darkness washed over him. Then there was nothing.

Nothing. Time stopped. 

A voice so familiar, so dear, broke through the cracks of his imprisoned mind and filtered through the dark. A voice calling his name. Urgent. Worried. Scared. 

“Hey, Malcolm! Pssst! Malcolm, wake up, _wake up!_ ”

Malcolm blinked. Just like every drugged dream he’d had —and he’d had plenty thanks to his father— the distorted memories slipped past his fingers and were long forgotten, leaving him empty and disoriented, lost between reality and nightmare. 

_And why can’t you remember? Perhaps it’s better if you don’t._

‘Shut up!’ Malcolm wanted to hiss at his father’s voice, but all that came out was a faint moan. 

The voice started calling out again. His sister’s voice. “Malcolm, are you awake?... Malcolm?”

“Ainsley...?” he asked skeptically, not sure if her voice was real.

“Yes.” came her curt reply. Was she mad? 

Malcolm squeezed his eyes and tried to reorient himself. He was lying on the floor, cheeks pressed against cold stone, head throbbing. Breathing didn’t come easily, either. He raised a hand to his head and felt iron chains around his wrists, weighing him down. 

The realization caused a surge of adrenaline that eased the fog shrouding his brain. As clarity filtered in, so did memories of the past few hours. The trip. The trap. The drugs.

His eyes flew open, and he pushed himself off the floor, his head spinning in the process. “Ainsley, are you okay!?” His voice was breathy, laced with panic.

“Woah, woah... slow down, Malcolm, I should be asking _you_ that! You’ve been sleeping for quite some time,” Ainsley admonished, but Malcolm could hear the fear that she was trying to mask. “I was... worried about you.” 

“I’m fine,” he reassured her, faking his best nonchalant tone. Slowly, he moved to his knees, rattling his chains and wincing as stiff limbs protested against any change in position. He felt lightheaded, and the effort it took to stay upright was embarrassing. His world spun out of focus again. _Okay, maybe not… fine._

Malcolm mentally checked himself, trying to remember what happened and how much damage he had already sustained. The laced water and the chloroformed cloth he was forced to inhale were the reason behind the disorientation and nausea. There was a faint throbbing in his stomach, but that was expected after the punch he took. The ache every time he sucked in a breath was due to Burly almost suffocating him. Malcolm didn’t need to see himself to know that bruises were forming around his throat. 

Ainsley silently watched him, clearly not trusting his proclamation of being ‘fine.’ To hide the bruises from her prying eyes, he buttoned up his dress shirt and adjusted his collar. 

It really wasn’t all bad… _yet._ It could have been worse, he reminded himself. It _would be_ worse if they stayed there. 

_Where were they?_

It was an underground basement or cellar. Stone floors, bare walls. Spacious and empty save for him and Ainsley. They were both chained at opposite corners with a door— the only exit out of this place— between them.

His manacles were sturdy, connected by thick chains, long enough so his arms could fall flat at his sides but not too long to allow for any risky maneuvers like wielding a hammer to break a finger and slip his hand through. Besides, the manacles wouldn’t allow for that because they were clasped snugly around each wrist, threatening to leave bruising marks. The chains were connected to the wall behind him via a strong, padlocked hook. Malcolm noticed how, unlike the ones Watkins used, the padlock on these chains was the only thing keeping him tethered to the wall. 

Pros: If he could pick the lock, he would be free. 

Cons: He would still be cuffed. 

He frowned and licked his lips as he thought.

Sneaking a look at his sister, he saw that she was chained similarly at the other end. Unlike him, Ainsley was almost halfway into the room, at her chains’ end trying to reach him. Malcolm scrambled to get to her, but they were still a few feet apart.

He couldn’t reach her, but he could see the exit. A metal frame with thick bars was fastened at the entrance, after which was a small flight of stairs, four as he counted, and another wooden door that had no inner latches that he could see. The chains, the rooms, the entrance all led Malcolm to one conclusion: they were in an actual cell, designed to keep people in, not just some random person’s basement. Their kidnappers had planned this. 

“Where are we? The last thing I remember was Sherwood talking, and I was feeling drowsy...then I drifted off.”

“Yeah, he laced our drinks. That’s why he was so intent on making us drink something,” Malcolm muttered and looked around. “And I don’t think we are in the same house, either. I think they took us somewhere.”

Malcolm looked around, hoping to see his bundle of clothes thrown carelessly somewhere and, _of course_ , found nothing. They had taken his coat, jacket, tie, shoes, and even his belt. 

Ever since Watkins kidnapped and chained him to the floor under the house, Gil had made him keep a small lock picker in his wallet. He wasn’t very good at picking locks, but he would always succeed... _eventually_. Obviously, said lock picker was long gone along with all his personal belongings and Ainsley’s, too. 

He scrambled back to his spot and started observing the chains, looking for any weakness, though he knew there wouldn’t be any. Wouldn’t harm to check, though. 

“Th..they? There were more people?” 

He perked up at her question, confused for a second before he remembered what she was talking about. 

“His friends!” Malcolm grunted as he pulled on his chain, trying to test its strength. “Five more, at least.” The chain didn’t give. 

He smashed the padlock against the floor hoping it would break— it didn’t. Malcolm tried again a couple of times before he realized that Ainsley had fallen silent. He turned to look at her and saw that she hadn’t moved and her lips were partly open as she stared at him. _Oh, she thought it was only Sherwood… Way to go, Malcolm._

“Other people came when you passed out. I was still awake,” he explained gently. “High tolerance to sedatives, remember? So,” he continued matter of factly. “They had to drug me again. It’s why I took longer to wake up. They probably used chloroform or something.” 

“So, what do they want with us? Are they going to kill us? Can you get us out of here?” Ainsley shot one question after another, her investigative training showing through. 

“Well! I think this has to do with us being related to Martin Whitly. They will either want to make us pay for what he did or just kill us— ah, sorry… too forward—umm but!” he added with forced optimism. “We will get out of here, don't worry. We just need to get rid of these chains…” Malcolm listed the stages as if they were a chicken soup recipe. “—then the metal door… then the other door and then out!” He licked his lips. “Just haven’t figured out _how_.. yet.”

“Not helping, bro,” she snapped and slumped in place, resting her hands in her lap.

Malcolm noticed a slight tremor in her shoulders and cursed himself. He had been too preoccupied trying to remember what happened, trying to check his chains and figure out escape routes that he failed to notice his sister’s fears or ask about her. _Really ask._

She must be terrified. Unlike him, she had never been in such situations before. Malcolm needed to be less practical and more sensitive to what he said. Although she appeared unfazed, her slumped shoulders and tremor said differently. 

Malcolm scrambled back to the end of his chain, sitting on his haunches, and looked at his sister. “Ainsley?” he asked tentatively and she looked up. 

Searching her face, Malcolm took in her state. He couldn’t see anything alarming. She looked just as he last saw her when she was sleeping on his shoulder, save for the messy hair, grim face, and bloodshot eyes. _She was crying._

“Ains… are you okay? Did someone hurt you? Did—”

“No, no,” she cut him off. “No one hurt me. I woke up, and you were there. I— tried to call for help, but—but no one came. So I just waited for you to wake up. But you took so long, and I thought— I thought that...”

“No, no. Hey… look at me. Ains... look at me.” Malcolm raised his hands and motioned to himself. “I’m fine! Okay? I’m fine.” When she didn’t say anything, he repeated, “Okay?”

She nodded, and he exhaled. Malcolm sat back on his heels. “Gil is going to kill us,” he observed. 

She giggled nervously. “Mother is going to kill us too.”

“Oh, yeah. She will.” He lowered his head and smiled. “I bet it’ll be worse than that time we broke Aunt Tiffany’s vase.”

“ _You_ broke it,” she teased, her smile growing wider. 

Malcolm feigned indignation and shrugged. Ainsley giggled some more and sighed. For a second, they forgot where they were. They were kids again, hiding the broken vase, afraid of their mother’s angry outbursts. 

Perhaps the memories were too much because they both fell silent soon after. The only thing breaking the stillness of their prison was the occasional clanking of chains as they shifted. 

Ainsley rested her hair on the wall behind her and closed her eyes. Malcolm went back to analyzing what happened, trying to build a profile based on the information he had.

It must have been thirty minutes at least before Ainsley broke the silence again. “I told my editor where we were going. She would’ve contacted the police when I didn't answer, right?” she mumbled as she played with the chains in her lap. When she continued, he had to strain his ears because her voice was barely audible. “I hope Gil finds us in time.” 

Malcolm’s breath caught but he said nothing. She sounded so hopeful that they would be found, and he didn’t want to take that from her. Truth be told, he hoped Gil would find them too...but he knew the odds of it were slim. 

These people knew what they were doing. They lured them into a fake house in the middle of nowhere, then drugged them and took them away. It wouldn’t be easy to follow their trail in time. They had to escape and save themselves.

The sound of the key turning in the lock signaled that someone was coming. Both of them perked. Malcolm got up on his knees, ready to meet his captors, and Ainsley mirrored him. It made his heart swell with pride at how well she masked her fear.

The door swung open, and footsteps echoed down the stairs. If Malcolm’s profile suggested anything, they hadn’t met the man in charge yet. He wondered if that was him. Quickly, he darted his eyes back to his sister, and they both exchanged a determined look. 

Malcolm had no idea how this would go, but he was sure of one thing: he wouldn’t let them hurt Ainsley. No matter what. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was for Whumptober Prompts No 1. LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME | **Waking Up Restrained** | **Shackled** | Hanging
> 
> and 
> 
> No 2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY “Pick Who Dies” | Collars | **Kidnapped**


	3. The Induction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta read by the amazing [ sonshineandshowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/works). Thank you <3
> 
> Check the end notes if you wish to know the prompts used in this chapter before reading it :)

**Chapter 3: The Induction **

Footsteps echoed down the stairs, and Malcolm realized that there was more than one pair. Sherwood entered first, followed by Burly and three other men. Malcolm watched them in silence as they filtered into the room, expecting their leader to come— a man who sent people to hunt for him would want to inspect the prize— so when no one else came, Malcolm was shocked. If the leader wouldn’t come and see them, it meant that they would be the ones going to him— hence the army of men in the cell. 

Sneaking a glance at his sister, Malcolm saw her cower a little. His heart ached at how hopeless he was to protect her, chained as he was, while five men towered over them. Burly and another man edged closer to him while the other two stood near Ainsley. 

Sherwood fumbled with a set of keys Malcolm was sure were for their chains— he had to get his hands on them if they wanted to escape. A kick landed in his sternum with enough force to push the air out of his lungs, and Malcolm cried out in pain and shock. He had been too engrossed in his mind to notice Burly approaching him. Malcolm doubled over as he choked and wheezed from the impact, tumbling to the floor. He tried to breathe in, but his muscles were on fire, and his body was riddled with hacking coughs. He was given no time to recover, as Burly’s hands fisted his shirt front and grabbed, dragging him up roughly. 

Ainsley’s frantic screams filtered through the pulsating pain. He wanted nothing more than to assure her that he was okay, but it was a mighty feat at the moment. 

“I can see what you’re thinking, _devil spawn_ ,” Burly spat as he raised him up easily and twisted his shirt. Malcolm held onto the man’s arms, trying to relieve the suffocating feeling and breathe better under the man’s grasp. 

“Carl, that’s enough,” Sherwood cautioned. “You will get your time with him after the ceremony if Aidan permits it.” 

Burly, or Carl, scowled but obeyed, promptly throwing Malcolm to the floor. Malcolm couldn’t break his fall, landing on his side at an angle that made him see stars. However, unwilling to satisfy the man further, he bit back his cry of pain. Malcolm braced himself on his elbows for a few seconds, well aware that they were all watching him. Three quick breaths were all he allowed himself before he pushed to his knees, ignoring the flares of pain in his body. 

He looked at Ainsley and smiled weakly, trying to assure her that he was okay. It was more like a grimace, but she nodded, her body language relaxing a bit. Ever the reporter, Ainsley hid behind an unreadable mask-- a poker face. It was only Malcolm’s keen eyes that noticed how her lower lip still quivered.

Having reassured her as much as he could, Malcolm looked back at Sherwood. The nice, fidgety man was still there, but the way he held himself was different. It was the look of a man with a genuine sense of purpose, a soldier following orders. 

Something in Sherwood’s previous statement chilled him. He didn’t know which part troubled him more: the promise of more time with Carl, or the use of the word _ceremony_. Whatever it was, Malcolm knew it wouldn’t be pleasant. On the bright side, he now knew the name of the man in charge. Aidan. Malcolm thought the name could give him a clue as to who was holding them, but it was still vague.

“Well, we don’t have time for this.” Sherwood looked pointedly at Carl and gave the keys to the other two men. The men crouched by their captives and unlocked their chain padlocks. No longer tethered to the wall, Malcolm and Ainsley were pushed to their feet and dragged out of their cell. 

They were still underground, walking through a series of dimly lit corridors that resembled a maze. The more they walked and took turns, the more surprised Malcolm became. This was almost a prison, not just a modified basement to keep them. Now it was more apparent that their captors were keeping them in an underground facility. Malcolm guessed it was an old fallout shelter. This new development put their situation in a new light. Escaping would be more challenging than he first thought— and he didn’t think it was easy to begin with. 

“Nice place. How did you find it?” Malcolm ventured, trying to get them to talk.

“Shut up!” Carl hissed in his ear and squeezed his arm, which was already grasped in a bruising force as he led him on. Malcolm gasped and tried to wring his arm, which only made Carl squeeze tighter. The man was getting off on hurting him. Malcolm wondered if it was him specifically who elicited that reaction or if the man was a sadistic bully in general. 

Sherwood walked ahead, followed closely by him and Ainsley, each escorted by one guard. The last two men trailed behind. The way they were closely watched made it impossible for Malcolm to try anything to escape. The measures they took were equally fascinating and frustrating. 

Ainsley shuffled beside him quietly. They had managed to make eye contact a couple of times. Each time, Malcolm had tried his best to convey silently that it was okay, that he would get them out of this mess, that she should remain strong. He didn’t know if she believed him, but he hoped it helped calm her. 

“I’m sure we can sit and talk about this—“ he started again.

“I said, shut up!” Carl growled. “Or the next time you talk, my fingers won’t be wrapping around _your_ throat.”

Ainsley’s head whipped to his side at the threat, eyes betraying her fear and shock. Malcolm realized that she didn’t know about Carl choking him the first time. He was equally angry and scared but mostly scared for Ainsley. Terrified actually, because he knew that if Carl followed through with his threat, Malcolm would be powerless to stop him. He swallowed the overwhelming emotions and stopped talking. Plan ‘reason with their jailors’ was a bust. If talking wasn’t going to help, then he might as well focus his energy on something else… like memorizing their way. 

The corridors were all similar, with no unidentifiable marks or signs; another problem that stood between them and their freedom. Malcolm tried to keep track of the turns at first, but Bur-Carl noticed, and soon a hand yanked Malcolm’s hair, pushing his head down. Malcolm grunted under the pressure and only had his feet to look at for the rest of the journey. 

In the silence that followed, Malcolm’s mind wandered back to the things Sherwood said. Aidan. Was he related to one of his father’s victims? Was he just an enthusiast? And why did he kidnap them? Something was missing. 

After an eternity of turns that were too many to memorize or keep track of, they stopped abruptly.

“You’ll stay quiet if you know what’s best for you,” Sherwood advised, knocking on what Malcolm assumed was a door. The door creaked as it swung open, and they were pushed into a dimly lit room. Next to him, Ainsley gasped. Still unable to lift his head and inspect things himself, Malcolm tried to get as many details as possible through his other senses.

The change in the atmosphere was the first thing he noticed: this place was colder and darker than the leading corridors. The smell of wood burning and the sound of crackling fire indicated the presence of a fireplace. There were also the faint whispers of _people_ — he didn’t need his eyes to know they were staring at them, speaking about them.

Carl’s hand on his head finally eased, and Malcolm’s eyes snapped up to look around. That was when he realized they were in bigger trouble than he initially thought.

He knew that a group of people had kidnapped them— six of them were just sent to get them. He knew they were following someone’s orders— this Aidan’s. What he hadn’t known was that there were around ten more, _at least_ , now staring back at them. Hatred, disgust, and _fear_ were etched into their faces— looks he always got when people knew what his father did. Malcolm was familiar with the glares, used to their sting, but they still hurt all the same. 

The people were clustered on the sides, leaving the room mostly empty. Bystanders. Spectators. 

Tearing his eyes from them, he took in the state of his room and felt an icy grasp along his spine. 

A stony altar stood in the middle, old and ominous, the stone-carved and decorated with ancient ruins. Four sets of restraints were mounted at each corner— Malcolm could see the leather straps dangling from the sides. Next to the altar was a small table where a ceremonial knife and a blindfold were carefully laid. On the far end of the room was the fireplace he heard when they first entered— fire crackling, flames roaring. 

It was all too hard to ignore. The hooded outfits the people wore, how the place was decorated, the choice of words people used — devilish, devil spawn, and ceremony. It all led to one conclusion. 

They were being held by a cult. 

This was bad. Unequivocally bad. 

Sherwood walked to the furthest end of the room to where a small antechamber was. He knocked, and Malcolm finally saw him. This people’s leader. _Their kidnapper_. Aidan...

_Aidan Shaw._

Malcolm recognized him from the files he kept on his father’s victims. The man was much older now, in his early forties. However, he was still the same person that stared at Malcolm whenever he looked at the pictures of Penny Brown— Martin Whitly’s nineteenth victim. The college senior was murdered brutally, leaving behind a mourning family and a grief-stricken fiancé— Shaw. 

Aidan Shaw looked in their direction and nodded. Suddenly, hands were on their shoulders, pushing them down roughly, forcing them to their knees. Shaw never acknowledged them; he walked to the center of the room with steady, light steps and began addressing his people.

“We have finally captured the Whitly siblings,” he announced, voice silvery, calming and appealing. No wonder the people trusted him. “Today, we are one step closer to our mission. To purge the Earth from the evil that walks on it. To put an end to the cursed bloodline. To bring salvation to us all.”

People started clapping. Beside Malcolm, Ainsley scoffed. “Is this for real? Are we being pranked?” she whispered quietly so that only Malcolm heard her. In fact, he also wasn’t sure if this was reality or some TV show he was watching. Of all the things he saw in his life— and he saw many things— _this_ was not something he could have ever imagined encountering. 

Aidan raised his hand, and the clapping stopped. “Sherwood tells me they put up a fight. But our gallant brethren have conquered and defeated them, and here they are, kneeling before you, humbled. In chains.”

“They _drugged_ and kidnapped us. These are all _lies_.” 

Malcolm’s head whipped to where his sister knelt, eyes wide with surprise when he heard her speak. She wasn’t trained for this. He gave her a pointed look, a warning to stop talking, just as Aidan advanced towards them. Malcolm tried to move in front of his sister to protect her from Shaw’s menacing glare, but Carl’s hands on his shoulder squeezed and twisted, making him gasp and buckle where he was. Helpless.

“What did you just say?” Aidan whispered as he stood before her.

“You kidnapped us,” Ainsley stood her ground. “Why?”

Malcolm hadn’t expected his sister to be so fearless and... reckless. For a second, he knew what Gil must feel every time he ran off and did dangerous things on his own. He was trained, and she wasn’t. And yet, despite everything, Ainsley looked so confident in the face of mortal danger. A horrible part of his psyche compared her confidence to that of his father— a thought he banished the second it dared to surface. 

As awe-inspiring as his sister was, she was still treading perilous waters. One wrong word could mean life or death. 

Aidan’s brow furrowed in mock confusion. “You’re his kids. You have it in your blood—”

“We don’t!”

“—you don’t deserve to live. Your blood is polluted, tainted.”

“We’re _not_ like him,” Malcolm chimed in. 

“Perhaps,” Aidan contemplated, looking at the profiler, and Malcolm dared to hope that Ainsley’s venture could work. “You’re working with law enforcement. She’s a reporter. But it’s only a matter of time before you embrace the devil inside and snap. It’s a risk I won’t allow.”

“What does this even mean?” Ainsley asked.

“It means... you will be purified, and then you’ll die atoning for all the evil your family bestowed on the world.”

Malcolm could see the second the color drained from his sister’s face —when Aidan finished talking. He was too busy looking at his sister that the sudden crushing hold on his arm surprised him. It was Carl— no doubt on a cue from Aidan. Malcolm was dragged to his feet and pushed to the middle of the hall, where the altar stood. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was for Whumptober Prompt No 3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY  
>  **Manhandled** | **Forced to their Knees** | Held at Gunpoint
> 
> Sorry if this fic is moving a bit too slow! I promise the pace picks up next chapter :D - so is the whump lol.


	4. The Mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta read by the amazing [ sonshineandshowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/works). Thank you <3
> 
> Check the end notes if you wish to know the prompts used in this chapter before reading it :)

**Chapter 4: The Mark**

_“It means... you will be purified, and then you’ll die atoning for all the evil your family bestowed on the world.”_

_Malcolm could see the second the color drained from his sister’s face when Aidan finished talking. He was too busy looking at his sister that the sudden crushing hold on his arm surprised him. It was Carl— no doubt on a cue from Aidan. Malcolm was dragged to his feet and pushed to the middle of the hall, where the altar stood._

_~~~_

Malcolm pushed and struggled against Carl’s hold until the man delivered an uppercut that sent him hugging the floor. 

“No!” he heard Ainsley’s cries as Carl bent down to haul him up once more. “Stop it!” She glared at Aidan, surprising both him and Malcolm. “You’re lying to all those people,” she spat with sudden vehemence.

“You are —” she hissed. “A _fraud_ who’s manipulating a group of naive people, hoping to gain something out of it. Maybe you hate The Surgeon. Maybe it’s revenge. Did my father take someone from you? I’m sorry if he did, but that’s him. Not us.”

“Ainsley, stop talking... _now_ ,” Malcolm warned, but she wasn’t listening. 

“— if you have a problem with my father, well, you can take it up with him. But _we are innocent_. Hurting or killing us will not bring who you lost back.”

“Ainsley!” Malcolm hissed loudly, his panic skyrocketing. She was too engrossed in her speech that she failed to see how the entire hall was ready to pounce at them and tear them from limb to limb.

Everything Ainsley uttered had caused nothing but irreparable damage. She had enraged Shaw, called him a fraud, insulted all those people, and threatened to break the image that he, no doubt, spent years building. And she was too focused on her speech that she failed to realize the full impact of what she was saying. Worse still, Malcolm had no way to protect her from their wrath.

“Let. Us. Go.” Ainsley finished and took a deep breath, still refusing to break her eye contact with Shaw.

A blanket of silence was draped over the room; It was like everyone had stopped breathing. Twenty sets of eyes all stared at their leader, waiting to see how he’d react to Ainsley’s outburst. Even Carl had frozen mid-lifting Malcolm up again, leaving his shoulder pulled behind him at an awkward angle. There was no sound save the burning flames... and Malcolm’s heartbeat in his ears. 

Aidan was looking over at Ainsley, so Malcolm could only see his back. Yet it was evident from his body language that the man wasn’t happy. He could see it in Aidan’s tense shoulders, clenched fists, and the slight tremor in his biceps. He was willing to bet that his face was overpouring with anger, enough to render anyone speechless with fear. But not Ainsley. His sister stared back at the man. Defiant, angry, eyes commanding. Malcolm wondered what she was thinking at that moment; if she received any of the danger signs radiating from the man before her. Part of him doubted that she was thinking at all. 

Just when the silence had reached a breaking point, Aidan deflated, breaking eye contact. He exhaled loudly and turned to address the crowd. “It is as I have feared. They have deep darkness inside. They want to poison your minds. Anything to save themselves,” he explained in a rueful tone, apologetic even. Suddenly, Aidan yanked a fistful of Ainsley’s hair, dragging her up to her feet. 

The second Aidan touched her, Malcolm started thrashing and fighting. Above him, Malcolm could hear Carl sneering at him to shut up, pinning his arm back to stop him from fighting. But nothing was stopping Malcolm. It wasn’t until something smashed against the base of his skull that he did. Malcolm’s vision blurred as a blinding pain ignited at the back of his head, leaving him dazed and docile. He was lifted up, and he swayed on his feet before Carl supported him and kept him in place. 

Malcolm tried to blink away the daze, but his body wasn’t his to command. He was transfixed, speechless as he watched it all happen in slow motion. 

Aidan pulling Ainsley close so that she was inches away from his face. Him whispering in her ear. 

Ainsley’s futile struggles, trying to wriggle out of the man’s grasp. Her eyes widened in fear at whatever he told her. How she became stiff after it, how she trembled in his hold. 

“—set an example,” Aidan said as he pulled away from his sister. Malcolm blinked and saw Sherwood handing him the carving knife. 

Aidan balanced the knife in his palm before focusing on Ainsley, rooted as he left her, trembling in her place. He moved behind her, and the violent shaking ceased as he rested the blade against her throat.

It was all the adrenaline Malcolm needed to find his voice again, to start pulling and thrashing again. “Wait! No, no, no, wait! Aidan, listen to me, you don’t want to do this. Killing her now isn’t part of the plan, right? And she was just trying to provoke you. We can talk about it. Just let her go,” he begged. “ _Please!_ ” 

Malcolm’s chest heaved with an overwhelming surge of panic. He could see Ainsley’s head resting on Aidan’s shoulder, eyes closed. The fear that he might never see those eyes staring back into his again was enough to suffocate him. 

The knife was still at Ainsley’s throat, but Aidan’s eyes were fixed on him, piercing in their intensity. He leaned and whispered in Ainsley’s ear again— an amused expression coloring his face— and tears started falling down her face.

Time stopped. Malcolm watched, wild-eyed as Aidan lifted the knife. The blade swept down and slashed a lock of Ainsley’s long hair. A smooth motion that was repeated again, and again, _and again_ — until Ainsley’s hair was nothing but a messy irregular bob, locks laying in a heap at her feet. It wasn’t until Aidan walked away that Ainsley let out a choked sob, surprised that she was still alive, and buckled to the ground. 

Malcolm almost collapsed in relief himself. Despite knowing the gravity of what just happened and its lasting effect on Ainsley, he was just glad that his sister was alive. _Breathing._

Ainsley covered her face, and her body shook with uncontrollable sobs. Malcolm’s sense of helplessness intensified at seeing her this broken. He wanted to comfort her, tell her it would be ok, but frankly, he couldn’t believe it himself. For all he knew, they might not be leaving this room alive. 

“Well, we can get back to our ceremony,” Aidan spoke when he returned the carving knife to. “Today, we will start with our process, to rid us of their evil...”

The declaration spurred the men into action. Carl pushed Malcolm towards the altar, and when Malcolm fought back, three more joined him. 

“...starting with the prodigal son.” Malcolm was lifted and slammed hard on his back. The men worked hastily— his ankles were strapped in leather cuffs, his chains were removed, and his wrists were locked in as well. Then they all backed away. He lay on that altar, arms and legs stretched and restrained at each corner like a lab specimen, waiting to be probed whichever way this man wanted, unable to defend himself. 

Malcolm’s range of motion was limited by the way he lay, but he could still see Ainsley, and that was the thing that mattered most. He could also see Aidan, who was standing in the middle of the hall. 

When the men restraining Malcolm scurried back, Aidan continued his speech, his voice carrying through the hall. “The process will commence today, ensuring that this prisoner’s soul remains trapped until he embraces his sins. Then he will die atoning for them.” 

Aidan walked out of Malcolm’s vision. Fear crawled through Malcolm’s veins like ice. He tried to struggle against his bonds, but they were sturdy and tightly secured. The fact that he could no longer see Aidan and the anticipation of what would happen to him was driving him crazy. 

He needed to control this fear.

Malcolm closed his eyes. Whatever would happen to him, he could take it. Better him than Ainsley. He could take it. _He_ _could take it._ He repeated the sentence over and over in his head until he relaxed a bit. 

Aidan came back with an apologetic smile on his face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bright. I know how much you love analyzing things, but this part is built on trust. So, I need you to trust me.” Before Malcolm could argue, Aidan secured the blindfold over his eyes, drenching his world in darkness. 

“No! No, remove it. I need to be able to see.” Malcolm struggled against his bonds again, jerking on the altar in a futile attempt at regaining the control he knew he didn’t have. The blindfold undid all the progress Malcolm had made toward calming himself. His heart was wild with overwhelming panic. 

“Remember, your little sister is watching,” Aidan whispered, and Malcolm went limp like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Amongst the panic, he had forgotten that Ainsley was there, watching as this man held Malcolm’s life in his hands. He must control his reactions for her sake. 

Malcolm tried to calm his breathing and strain his ears to discern what was happening around him. He could hear Aidan moving around, people’s breathing, and the fire crackling. He could no longer hear Ainsley crying— part of him wished that his sister had passed out so she wouldn’t have to witness this, so she didn't have to see him helpless and exposed. 

“The mark of purification will be the first step...” Shaw announced, and Malcolm wondered if the man even believed what he said. He felt hands on his dress shirt, and he flinched.

“Do you know about Viking runes, Mr. Bright?” Shaw asked conversationally. The hands— he assumed Aidan’s— unbuttoned his shirt and bared his chest. “They used to paint symbols for good luck, believed that these marks made their wishes come true. It's truly fascinating if you ask me.” 

Malcolm heard water pouring into... a container, bowl? Before he could wonder what would happen, something cold was rubbed against his chest— a wet cloth. His breathing hitched as he tried to control his reaction and bite back a cry of surprise. Yet relief washed over him as the man kept cleaning. It was just water— ice cold freezing water, but _only_ water. 

“You might be wondering why I’m telling you this,” Aidan said while he worked. 

“The thought did cross my mind,” Malcolm replied, mainly so he could hear his own voice and ground himself. Anything to lessen the terror that gripped his spine. 

Aidan chuckled quietly and said nothing. Then the washcloth was gone. 

As the silence dragged on, Malcolm wondered if it was part of the _ceremony._ If Aidan was doing something or if he was leaving him to stew in his own fear and stress, waiting for what would happen next.

“You’re lying on an ancient altar, Mr. Bright. Many have been purified on it before you. It’s a great honor for you to lie on it….umm... considering who you really are,” Aidan’s voice called out from behind him. 

Malcolm focused on the echo of footsteps behind him until they halted at his left side. He could detect the man’s presence, smell him, feel his warmth. He _knew_ where this was going — he had known since they marched them into this room. His chest rose and fell frantically as a result of the terror that gripped his heart. 

“They call it the powerful binding of the prisoner— the mark you’re about to have. A beautiful mark, if you ask me. And once I’m done, your soul will remain trapped in this place forever. But also consider it an initiation of sorts.” Aidan’s voice echoed in the hall. 

Malcolm pulled against his bonds, unsuccessfully, his chest heaving with the anticipated and unavoidable pain that would surely come. The fact that he wouldn’t see it coming made matters worse. When he heard Aidan approach him again, he clenched his hands and squeezed his eyes shut under the blindfold. He was just at the brink of hyperventilating when one thought strengthened him and kept him rooted. 

Better him than Ainsley. 

“May this mark be the beginning of your atonement,” Aidan announced against the backdrop of Malcolm’s thundering heartbeats. Malcolm could smell the metal poker burning. He braced himself for the pain. 

Something cold touched his chest, and he flinched violently— gritting his teeth so as not to cry out—waiting for the pain that would ignite but feeling none. It was just Aidan’s hands. The touch came back over his heart, and he recoiled from his touch once more. No pain. Then again and Malcolm realized through the mind-boggling fear that the man was _toying_ with him. 

Aidan touched him maybe a dozen times or more. Each touch made him flinch and shiver and whimper. Every time in a different place until Malcolm almost wished he’d just do it and get it over with. Logically, he knew this taunting took no more than a couple of minutes, but for him, trapped in this hell, it felt like an eternity. His mind broke with every touch, with every promise of pain that didn’t come, with every intake of breath against the touch that was a false alarm. 

He couldn’t relax... 

Because this was no harmless taunting. He knew the pain would come, but only after his captor had his fun. Only after Malcolm lay shaking on that altar, body spent from all the fear, and stress, and anticipation— the smallest touch forcing undignified whimpers from his lips. Only then would the brand come.

Then the brand finally kissed his right pec with a deafening _hiss_. Coldness spread as the metal first touched skin, and Malcolm gasped almost as loudly, his eyes growing three sizes with the shock. It was an iciness that spread for a fraction of a millisecond before the world was set on fire. His breath caught in his lungs, and he felt as if his soul had fled his body. Malcolm had resolved to bite against the pain, to keep it all in for Ainsley’s sake. He had a high pain tolerance, and he could handle a burn. But that was before he was so physically and mentally spent. And it wasn’t just a burn; it was like someone had set his chest on fire. 

Malcolm _shrieked_. A raw, uncensored, animalistic howl.

The smell of his flesh burning, of his skin being eaten away, was too much to handle. Malcolm clenched his hands, curled his toes, and arched his back upwards. A hand pushed him back down easily and kept him pinned. Then the man pressed the poker harder, holding it steady against his attempts to wiggle. Malcolm flailed, his head wrenched from side to side, trying to escape the fire claiming him and failing. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream— it was like his lungs were sealed shut. Tears kept falling as he writhed, pain signals overloading his brain. A few seconds felt like an eternity of unending agony. Why wouldn’t the man take it off? _Take it off. Please, please._

And then finally, _finally,_ the poker was removed. Malcolm wailed as burnt skin peeled away, leaving behind, no doubt, a mangled mess. His wail morphed into a broken sob and shuddering shallow gasps. He knew it was over, but he was unable to process it. He could still feel the scorching metal burning his skin, could still smell it, hear it even, as he lay trembling on that altar. Pain rolled over him in waves, leaving him delirious.

He was barely aware as the blindfold was removed and his wrists and ankles freed. When his arms were lowered down, flexing his chest muscles, white-hot pain washed over him and threatened to pull him under. Malcolm found himself wishing for that blissful darkness to claim him and relieve him from this agony. The world around him was static— nothing else was real. His existence only extended to the throbbing pain in his chest that he somehow felt deep in his heart and bones. Eating at him and demanding his full attention. That was _very real._

Malcolm was lifted and dragged out of the room, back into the dimly lit corridors. Every step jostled his burn and almost sent him under. _Almost._ His stubborn body refused to give in. Malcolm resented being denied the chance to escape this hell. So he remained in his stupor, watching through phantom eyes as they walked and walked and finally reached the cell. 

The grasp on his arms loosened, and he felt himself falling. Malcolm was out before he hit the ground.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was for Whumptober Prompts No 11. PSYCH 101 **Defiance** | Struggling | Crying (for Ainsley)
> 
> and
> 
> No 14. IS SOMETHING BURNING? **Branding** | Heat Exhaustion | Fire
> 
> Super mega thanks to Hannah for helping with the brand idea. The powerful binding of prisoner. It added to the gravity of the mark!! I love you ♥️♥️♥️


	5. An Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta read by the amazing [ sonshineandshowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/works). Thank you <3
> 
> Yess I know October is over, and we are mid-November! buttt there is no timeline for whump xD
> 
> As usual, check the end notes if you wish to know the prompt before reading.

**Chapter 5: An Interlude**

Malcolm drifted in a world of pain. It rolled over him in hot waves, and he roasted in it. Whenever he tried to resurface, another wave engulfed him and pulled him under. Unfortunately, the darkness was anything but blessed — it was a realm of nightmares.

Memories of the ceremony played over and over in his mind. Part of him knew it was a dream, that it was his fevered brain manifesting his worst fears. Yet Malcolm couldn’t help but beg Aidan to spare Ainsley and take him instead again and _again_ and _again_. He couldn’t help but scream when the man sliced her throat in one swift motion, disregarding his pleas for mercy every time.

Malcolm screamed and watched, petrified, as his sister’s lifeless body hit the ground, and the floors got soaked with her blood.

And then he’d relive it all over again.

Then the nightmares evolved. Instead of being alone with Aidan in a vast clearing, Malcolm saw his father strolling around them, mocking him for being weak, deeming Malcolm unworthy of being his son. Other times, his mother was there, crying, bitter, blaming him for letting his sister die. In all scenarios, he was held down by chains, anchored to a single spot on the floor, unable to reach his sister. 

He fought to escape that hell, but his body refused to listen. And so he remained. Wake up. Faint. Watch Ainsley die. Wake up … repeat.

Between the cycles of nightmares, Malcolm felt hands on him, holding him, moving him. A touch on his throbbing chest had him seeing fireworks. He screamed in the void he was trapped in, but no sound came out. He wanted to open his eyes, say anything, but he couldn't find his way to the surface; the agony of that touch drowned all coherent thought. Every inhale was fire, every exhale was smoke, ash, and soot. Nothing was clear anymore, and he slowly melted into the darkness.

_ Aidan slitting Ainsley’s throat.  _

He came to with another gasp. Hands were still on him. Cold. So very cold because his skin was molten lava. The touch was soothing and yet completely foreign and unwanted. 

He tried to push them away, mumbled “ _ please stop”  _ and “ _ no more,”  _ but they didn’t listen. He coughed, and his throat was too dry like he was swallowing sand. Then a cool wash of water flowed between his lips and down his abused throat. Though it tasted funny, it was heavenly… then down under he went again.

_ “Ainsley will never go home, and it’s your fault,”  _ Aidan sneered in his ear as he branded him again. Malcolm deserved it. He knew he did. He had failed Ainsley, so he might as well burn for it. 

_ Pain _ . 

Whether it was remembered or real, he didn’t know— its intensity was the same. 

Malcolm screamed. Gasped. Spluttered. Coughed. 

And opened his eyes.

The same bleak walls of the cell stared back at him. He blinked, and his other senses filtered back. The stone floor was cold under his bare skin _ —  _ he didn’t have a shirt. Something was draped over him, trapping the air and keeping him warm. His hair was damp with sweat, and that horrible smell of his flesh burning still clogging his nostrils almost sent him gagging. A chill ran through him as he tried to separate dream from reality, to comprehend that part of it was actually true— he wasn’t waking up in the tangled blanket mess of his bed, and this wasn’t a regular night terror like the ones he was usually plagued with. Some of it  _ actually  _ happened. 

His ... _ mark…  _ was throbbing, albeit faintly. It was surprising: Malcolm had expected the pain to be much more intense, to have more prominent side effects other than fevered dreams and cold sweats. When that brand kissed his skin, when his insides were melting, he had been sure he wouldn’t see the next morning, that he was done for. 

And yet he woke up...

Malcolm shifted, sliding the blanket away from his body. The chains, still locked around his wrists, clinked and made themselves known.  _ Of course, they had restrained him again. _

He was branded and tethered to the wall like cattle, marked for life. The thought filled him with a new bout of indignation and fury. He didn’t even see that cursed mark… didn’t know what it looked like, the powerful binding of a prisoner. Sluggishly, Malcolm moved his head up to try to have a look.

He saw the white gauze and plaster covering a square patch on his skin. They had attended to it. Malcolm was surprised again, but he quickly made the connection as to why the pain was duller than he expected. It also explained why he was trapped in a constant cycle of nightmares, unable to wake up. He was drugged, sedated probably. He wondered how much time had passed while he was in this state. He wondered if Ainsley was okay. 

_ Ainsley! _

Malcolm darted his eyes to Ainsley’s side of the room and was relieved to find her there, unharmed and apparently asleep _. _

She was crouched in the corner hugging her knees and trying her best, no doubt, to be as small as possible. It reminded Malcolm of the days they were young, playing hide and seek. Only then, Ainsley had been trying to hide from him and not from an angry cult that wanted them dead. 

Her head rested on the wall next to her, and her eyes were closed. Tear tracks were still visible behind the curtains of her now short hair, which clung to her cheeks in an uneven mess. 

Careful not to wake her, Malcolm eased back to the floor. 

Aidan might not have hurt her physically, but changing her appearance was enough to cause the damage he wanted. Ainsley prided herself on how she looked, loved her hair, joked that it was the second best thing about her after her ambition. Depriving her of that, humiliating her in front of the others, would crush her spirits. Malcolm knew Ainsley was a strong woman, but she would never feel the same way after this violation. Memories of the encounter would haunt her forever…  _ if they ever made it out of there.  _

_ Out of there.  _

Malcolm focused on escaping. He should start to feel the effects of withdrawals soon, and if that happened, he’d be useless to help himself and Ainsley out of there. Knowing time was of the essence, he went through everything he knew about their captors and their leader so far.

Aidan. A man with a grudge against The Surgeon. He’d been so hellbent on revenge that he formed an entire cult, a band of followers that believed in what he said. The man was charismatic, soft-spoken, shrewd— Malcolm could almost see him as he charmed his way through people’s minds. As Malcolm once explained to his team, cult leaders preyed on people who had nothing to lose, who would be willing to be accepted into a new home, a new way of living. These people were lost and found a home in whatever Aidan preached. 

Malcolm found himself with two possible conclusions. They could have been chosen at random, brainwashed, and force-fed lies. In that case, he could try and find a weak link, get through to someone like he did with Andi once upon a time… and perhaps they could run away from this place. That would be the hopeful option. 

Or these people had a connection to The Surgeon’s victims in one way or another. If that was the situation, then their firm beliefs were fueled not only by Aidan’s words but by their hatred and want of revenge. Malcolm and Ainsley wouldn’t stand a chance. 

_ Maybe Gil would save them, _ a small and hopeful voice in his mind reminded him. Malcolm wondered if Gil or his mother had figured out that they went missing by now. Ainsley had mentioned that her editor knew about their trip. Surely, she would have contacted the police when Ainsley never made it back. But… even if Gil knew they had been kidnapped, Malcolm doubted that their trail would lead him to them anytime soon. 

Which brought him back to his initial option: get through to someone, find a way out of this place, and until then, endure whatever they throw at him. 

Judging by how things were going, it looked like he’d have to endure  _ a lot.  _ Their induction, their first encounter, had resulted in him getting branded by a scorching hot metal. Just thinking about what else could follow chilled Malcolm to his core. 

More importantly, they had chosen to heal him, patch him up after the ordeal. He was given painkillers, and his wound was probably cleaned before covering it. They didn’t want him to break or get sick after their first step. As relieving as it was that he wouldn’t be battling an infection, Malcolm knew that they were only prolonging his life… his agony. 

Whatever they had planned for him, it seemed like it was only just starting— patching him up meant they were ensuring his body wouldn’t give out before they were done. But how long would it be before he  _ broke _ ? How much entertainment could he provide until they turned their eyes on Ainsley? 

Now he was able to think and analyze, but soon he would start feeling the effects of withdrawal. A thought sprung to his mind— maybe he should tell them about his medications. If they were so willing to treat him physically, they’d perhaps want to help him mentally as well… or else hurting him would not be as fun. It was worth a shot.

A few moments of silence passed as Malcolm penciled down his ideas. That sorted, his mind wandered aimlessly. He was so thirsty. Funny enough, he was hungry too. But mostly, he was just so spent. He didn’t want to go back to sleep again; he’d had enough of watching Ainsley die. Malcolm looked at his sister again. Ainsley hadn’t stirred since he woke up— once or twice she mumbled in her sleep, probably dreaming, but that was it. He sighed. He’d hoped that she would have a dreamless sleep. Malcolm debated waking her up, but the cowardly part of him didn’t know what to say to comfort her— their situation  _ was _ terrible, there was no sugarcoating it. 

Malcolm closed his eyes and tried to meditate. He spent some time, maybe hours, maybe minutes, in silence until he heard footsteps approaching their cell. 

He got up to his knees and winced when his skin tugged around his brand. He found himself secretly hoping that Carl wouldn’t be there— it was a thought that surprised and filled him with shame. He was already scared of the guy. 

It wasn’t Carl. 

Malcolm found himself releasing the breath he didn’t know he was holding. It was someone else, another person he could talk to and maybe convince to help them escape. His sigh of relief turned into a frown of confusion at what he saw. 

A woman walked in, carrying a tray that appeared to have some food and water for them. What stood out were the large headphones she had over her ears, which were blasting music so loud Malcolm could hear it. She quietly put a glass of water and protein shake before each of them and left the tray in the middle. Malcolm tried to speak to her when she was near him, but she didn’t bother silencing the headphones or removing them. She didn’t even acknowledge him. 

“They’re afraid you will charm them with your silver tongue,” Aidan’s voice filtered through the room, and Malcolm’s head whipped to the source of the sound. Aidan was standing at the door, leaning on one side, observing Malcolm with an amused expression, like he just caught a child causing mischief. “They know about your ability to turn people to your side. They’re protecting themselves,” he explained. 

The anger and incredulity of the situation boiled inside Malcolm’s chest, but before he could reply, he saw Ainsley move. She must have heard his voice because she was fully awake and eyeing Aidan with wide, scared eyes. 

Aidan noticed the movement as well and turned to look at Ainsley. “Good day to you, Miss Whitly. Did you sleep well? The benzos work miracles to calm a hysterical mind, don’t they?”

Ainsley glared at him at first for a brief moment before she bowed her head and looked away. It was a gesture so unlike Ainsley that Malcolm found himself flush with anger.

Aidan  _ had her drugged? _

It explained why she slept so deeply and didn't even stir when he woke up. Malcolm’s hands shook in anger rather than fear, and even when he clenched them, his chains continued to rattle. 

The sound drew Aidan’s attention back to him. His eyes traveled from Malcolm’s hands to his face, and he arched an eyebrow. “Eat up, Malcolm. I have something to take care of, and then we need to talk.” He turned out of the cell and hopped up the stairs.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was for Whumptober alt. Prompt: Nightmares


	6. The Cult Leader - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta read by the amazing [ sonshineandshowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/works). Thank you <3
> 
> Special Thanks to those who are still sticking with me on this adventure! And to ace for beta'ing this <3
> 
>   
> As usual, check the end notes if you wish to know the prompt before reading.

**Chapter 6: The Cult Leader - Part 1**

The sound of Aidan’s footsteps died away, leaving Ainsley and Malcolm alone. 

Making sure that the external danger was gone for now, Malcolm turned his attention to his sister. Ainsley was still huddled in the corner, shoulders stiff, _staring at the floor._

Whatever Aidan said to her, whatever he _did_ must have shook her to her core. Still, Malcolm suspected that other things had happened while he was unconscious—he just didn’t know what. He knew Ainsley’s autonomic tells very well, and she was hiding something from him. He also knew her well enough to know that no matter how much he asked, she certainly wasn't going to tell him anything.

But _why?_ Why not confide in him? Was she scared to tell him, or did she think she was protecting him, especially now that he was injured? 

If that were the case, then she’d be mistaken because Malcolm was _fine_. He didn’t want her to hide any truths from him—he needed every scrap of information for his profile. Malcolm still tried to probe his sister for information even though he knew it was futile. 

Ainsley did talk, but she was very careful with her words, selective. She refused to tell him why she was drugged. But… she told him that he’d been asleep for almost a day since the _ceremony—_ unconscious, plagued with nightmares. His screams were so loud that they had to sedate him. Aidan had been the one to patch him up in the cell. Ainsley suspected Aidan had some medical training because “he seemed to know what he was doing. _”_

Malcolm sighed. Except for Aidan’s involvement, things had happened like he theorized. It matched with Malcolm’s knowledge of the guy. The Aidan Shaw he had in mind went to nursing school before disappearing without a trace. However, it didn’t explain why Aidan was the one to do it. Cleaning a wound and covering it didn’t need an expert… unless Aidan didn’t trust his own people to do the task right. 

If the cult leader didn’t trust his own subordinates, it gave Malcolm an opening to turn someone to their side. He just needed to keep a keen eye on who would be irked by this distrust. Mark Sherwood certainly didn’t seem to mind it. Carl, on the other hand,… _had potential._

Malcolm almost laughed at the thought. Carl would _never_ help them. He would have killed Malcolm in a heartbeat if it weren’t for Aidan’s _other_ plans. Malcolm wondered why the man hated him so much… he was almost sure Carl wasn’t related to any of The Surgeon’s victims. 

Malcolm got out of his head for a while when he noticed that Ainsley hadn’t touched her food. It was clearly an uninviting meal, but he knew that wasn’t why she wouldn’t have it. Misery and fear might curb human hunger cues, but it didn’t mean that the body wasn’t starving. He didn’t know how much time they had before Aidan or his people came back, and Malcolm didn’t want Ainsley to starve, so he spent the remaining precious minutes coaxing her to eat something. 

At first, Ainsley refused to eat, but Malcolm was persistent in his pleas. They needed to stay as strong and as healthy as possible in this place until they found a way to escape. 

She nodded absentmindedly and nibbled on the food before her. Malcolm forced himself to eat as well, swallowing each bite with a grimace. The bread they provided was old, stale, and as harsh as wood, but he barely minded. Malcolm had trouble with most food, anyway, and his mind was focused on his upcoming meeting with Aidan. 

It was his chance to talk to the man, get into his head, and understand his motives. 

The last few minutes were spent in silence. Neither sibling had anything to say, and both of them were too mentally and emotionally spent to even try to think of something. There was also the fear that when Malcolm went to meet Aidan, he wouldn’t come back. Neither of them voiced this fear, but the thought hung in the silence between them. 

When footsteps echoed, approaching their cell, Malcolm’s heart skipped a beat. He scrambled towards his sister and whispered, “Ains, listen to me. Whatever happens—“

“Don’t,” she cut him off. Malcolm looked at his sister, and he could see his fear reflected in her eyes. She shook her head and took a steadying breath. “Don’t say goodbye.” Her voice gained some confidence. “You’re smarter than him, smarter than them all. You will get us out of here. I trust you.”

The old Ainsley was still in there, and she believed in him, trusted him. Warmth spread through Malcolm’s chest. He nodded and gave her a weak smile. 

The cell door opened with a loud clang. Without saying a word, Mark and Carl came in, unlocked his chains, and dragged him out of the cell.

* * *

The trip to Aidan’s study was further than that to the meeting hall he got branded in. If Malcolm had to guess, he’d say it was on the other side of the shelter. He was dragged through a series of corridors by Carl’s hand keeping his head pushed down so he wouldn’t recognize the way. After several minutes of uncomfortable walking, they abruptly stopped. 

Malcolm noticed that, unlike the other one, this door had no outer handle. When Mark knocked, a sound buzzed, and the door clicked open. 

Sherwood went in first, leaving Malcolm and Carl at the door. Malcolm wasn’t even trying to wiggle out of Carl’s hold—he _wanted_ to speak with Aidan—and yet Carl’s bruising grip on his arm was as strong as ever. Trying to ignore the throbbing in his arm from cut circulation, Malcolm prepared himself for his next encounter. 

Sherwood came back a few moments later and motioned to Carl, who pushed Malcolm inside. The door closed, leaving both Malcolm and Aidan alone. 

Malcolm cast a wary glance over the place, taking in the details. It was just a typical office, like that of a college professor or a lawyer or any other home study. A large mahogany desk sat in the middle, where some books and papers were stacked neatly. A bookshelf was mounted near it and a couple of chairs sat around it. 

On one side, there was an electric fireplace and a comfortable looking armchair. On the other side was a huge maroon curtain. Malcolm wondered what was behind it. Something told him it didn’t blend well with the innocent feel of this room—that it hid a hobby room like his father’s. 

Aidan stood in the middle, casually leaning against the desk and studying Malcolm as he looked around. He wasn’t tall, barely an inch or two over Malcolm. The man looked healthy and carried himself well. His strong jaw coupled with the grey streaks that highlighted his well-trimmed hair made him textbook charismatic. Malcolm tried to search for the man who strapped him on an altar and branded him, but he wasn’t there. It wasn’t until he met his eyes that Malcolm saw it—the lust for revenge. 

Malcolm didn’t like to admit the extent to which his father’s past haunted him—he thought the state of him was enough proof. So he never told anyone that he requested and kept copies of his father’s case and trial notes as soon as he became an FBI agent. It was all in a secret box that he kept hidden in his study, full of case files, notes, newspapers, and research about The Surgeon's victims. The trial files were also rich with information about their families and loved ones. But this data was outdated. 

When The Carousel Killer blackmailed his mother, he got a chance to re-examine the old files and gather new information. In that extended research, one name had just disappeared—Aidan Shaw’s. 

The grieved boyfriend was in his senior year of college when his fiancée, Penny, was killed. He had finished college, graduated from nursing school, and then all records of him just stopped updating. It was like the man disappeared off the face of the earth. Malcolm remembered cross-referencing the files and thought it was odd that there was no online trail of him whatsoever. Now that Malcolm really thought about it, that must have been a huge red flag. 

Aidan, like Malcolm, observed his captive in silence. His eyes traveled over Malcolm... _sizing him up?_ Maybe they were searching for the same psychopathic inclinations his father possessed… or for a reason to justify what he put Malcolm through. Perhaps he was just thinking about how he could hurt him more. Malcolm couldn’t really tell—Aidan’s expression was guarded, and without speaking, his intentions were lost. 

Neither man spoke for a long time. They studied each other in silence—a battle of power, of who would get uncomfortable enough and break the silence first. 

Finally, Aidan’s face twisted into a coy smile, and he broke the silence. “Mr. Bright, what a pleasure to have you here, finally,” he spoke as if he was entertaining a guest in his home. 

Malcolm wondered why the charade if they were already alone. Surely the man could stop pretending and speak his mind now that no one was there to see it. He gestured to his shackles. “Well, if it weren’t for these around my wrists and the burn mark on my chest, I’d think you actually meant it.”

Aidan chuckled. “We can’t talk while standing. Let’s go in and have a seat, shall we?” He walked to the hidden part of the room, held the curtain, and waited expectantly. When Malcolm didn't follow, he gave him a pointed look.

“I am good. I don’t mind standing.” Malcolm shrugged. 

“I’m afraid this won’t work. That gauze needs changing,” Aidan argued back as if he was trying to convince Malcolm by giving him the illusion of choice. 

Malcolm sighed. Knowing he really had no choice, he shuffled in, and his sense of foreboding increased with every step. When his foot crossed the threshold and he saw what was behind the curtains, he knew his initial assessment was correct. That part was hidden behind the curtain to separate a regular person from the monster inside.

An average person could mistake this for an operating room. Only Malcolm was not average. He had spent half his life studying killers and arresting them; he would know a killer’s lair when he saw it. The medical equipment looked pristine and in good shape. The chair, however, stood out. It resembled a dentist’s chair in shape, but instead of the leather cushioning, it was completely metal, and countless leather straps dangled from it. 

Instinctively, Malcolm took a few steps backward. His survival instincts screamed for him to _run._ His eyes darted to the door which was his only exit. Unfortunately, he knew it was an automatic door that wouldn’t budge if he pried it open. But this wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was that his exit was blocked by two guards who appeared out of nowhere and were now approaching him with menacing eyes. Their hands landed on his shoulders, and he was shoved towards the chair.

They worked efficiently with practiced steps. One of them worked on his lower body, locking the straps tightly around his ankles, calves, and waist. The other fastened the ones around both wrists and elbows. Finally, the last two wrapped around his head and under his neck, just over his shoulder. 

There were too many leather straps. Malcolm would have been totally incapacitated with half of them, but he doubted the reason was just to secure him to a chair. This was another power play. He wasn’t hurting... just so damned uncomfortable… and if he was honest with himself, scared. All he could do was twitch… _even barely_ do that _._

He tried not to panic, tried to breathe through the restrictive belt tied so tightly around his chest. The last time Aidan had him immobilized this way, he burned him. Whatever came next wouldn’t be **pleasant**. 

“Are these really necessary?” Malcolm called out, testing his bonds. “I thought you wanted to talk.”

“We will,” Aidan promised. 

The strap across his head restricted his movement, forced him to look in one place only at a certain angle. He had no room to wiggle or turn it. With the chair tipped backward, he could mostly stare ahead unless he moved his irises to the far left—only then could he spot Aidan, still standing where he was. 

“Thank you, Josh, Peter,” Aidan said, and Malcolm assumed the other two men were gone, leaving them alone. Aidan walked towards him and despite having tested the strength of his bonds already, Malcolm instinctively started twitching and fidgeting again. It was pathetic, but the panic that was slowly building inside him had reached its breaking point. 

Slowly, Aidan filtered into full view. The glee in his eyes did nothing to calm Malcolm’s racing heart and increasing panic. Aidan cupped his face, and Malcolm flinched. 

It made Aidan smile. “You might be wondering why… all those straps. If I’m honest, the goal is to make you as uncomfortable as possible, Malcolm.”

He stared into Malcolm’s eyes as if he was drinking in all the panic and anger that was overwhelming him.

“Here now,” Aidan tsked. “Remember we came in here to _sit_ down and talk. Please, stop fighting. These straps are quality material, and they’re fastened well. I assure you they won’t break or give way. If I were you, I’d save my breath.” 

Forcing himself to stop fidgeting, Malcolm looked at his captor and glared. It was met with another amused smirk. 

“I want us to talk about your accommodations with us.” Aidan walked away, and Malcolm, trapped the way he was, could only follow the sound of his voice. “We met in rushed circumstances and didn’t have time to have a chat,” he continued apologetically. 

Malcolm cursed. He needed to see Aidan’s face to profile him. A voice wasn’t enough; it had to be accompanied by the subtle shift of body weight, stance, smile or frown, or minute expressions in the eyes. His head being pinned down was preventing this. He heard the sound of a trolley dragging towards him, and his stomach plummeted. 

“We haven’t even been properly introduced.” Aidan’s face was back above him. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“But I know who you are,” Malcolm replied. He was having difficulty raising his voice, and the panic was going to drive him crazy. He needed to fidget, and he couldn’t move a muscle. The only free parts were his fingers, and Malcolm opened and closed them increasingly rapidly. If Aidan noticed it, Malcolm didn’t care. He was going to suffocate if he didn’t _move something_.

“Oh, really?” Aidan mocked. “ _You_ know _me_ because I told you who I am.” 

“No,” Malcolm cut in. “I know who you are, why you’re doing this. You’re Aidan Shaw.” 

The amused expression on Aidan’s face dropped. 

“I _know_ who you are. I know about _Penny_ ,” Malcolm ventured. Aidan’s jaw tensed. When he remained silent, Malcolm continued, his voice almost a whisper, “The Surgeon murdered her in 1992. She was a senior in college, betrothed to her colleague and boyfriend. Aidan Shaw. _You.”_

Aidan walked away from view, but Malcolm could hear him standing nearby, still listening. 

_“_ This isn’t you, Aidan,” Malcolm implored. “My father took your happiness from you, filled your heart with hate.”

“He took everything from me,” Aidan shot back, voice surprisingly choked.

“He didn’t,” Malcolm said gently. He was making progress, getting through to Aidan. “He didn’t take away your good heart, your compassion for others. You don’t really want to hurt me, Aidan. You’re a good person. You went to nursing school because you wanted to help people. That’s the kind of man you are!”

“That’s not me anymore,” Aidan scoffed. 

“But it can still be! You can still end this. We both know there's no such thing as devil's blood. You know this is just an excuse for revenge. You think you will feel better after you’ve killed us, but it’s not true. The urge will never go away. It will never be satisfied...”

“Shut up!” Aidan snapped. Malcolm could hear his internal turmoil etched in his voice. He just needed an extra push. 

“Penny wouldn’t want you to go down this path, Aidan. Leading people on, lying to them, kidnapping and hurting innocent people. This isn’t the man Penny fell in love with. Think of her, Ai—” 

Malcolm felt pressure on his windpipe a second before his breathing was cut. Aidan’s hands squeezed in anger. 

“ _Shut up!”_ his growl was barely audible and was drowned by the strangled sounds of Malcolm’s feeble attempts at breathing. 

Malcolm twitched violently and jerked in his bonds, trying to escape the invading hands crushing his airway. He had pushed too far. The fact that Aidan wasn’t in control, that he was enraged, terrified Malcolm beyond anything. Aidan could accidentally kill him. So Malcolm fought against the man’s hold with all his might. 

“If you so much as mention her name again, I’ll make you watch me kill your little sister... _slowly,”_ he continued. His voice was a terrifying whisper that carried so much power and hatred and so little control. 

Malcolm’s struggles slowly faded away. He could already feel darkness encroaching the corners of his vision. Maybe this was it. He felt himself melting into oblivion.

“Do we have an understanding?” Aidan’s voice filtered through the darkness a moment before the pressure on his throat was lifted. 

Air rushed in so fast as Malcolm gasped and gasped and coughed. His vision was swimming, too dizzy due to the lack of oxygen. Tears ran down his face against his control. Malcolm closed his eyes and tried to breathe. The sound of his lungs, so hungry for air, expanding and collapsing, and his heaving gasps were so loud that they drowned all other sounds in the room. 

He couldn’t draw in a full breath. The strap around his chest was too tight… but it was better than one minute ago. One minute ago when Malcolm was on the brink of death just because he dared to mention Penny's name. Malcolm thought he could get through to him, had hoped he could build a connection through Aidan’s grief, but he was wrong. It was a dumb risk that almost cost him his life. 

Mercifully, Aidan let him recover. When his breathing, still labored, calmed down a little, he repeated his question. “ _I asked. Do we have an understanding?”_

Unable to speak, Malcolm tried to nod, only to realize that he couldn’t move his head. Too terrified to anger the man above him once more, he forced the words, “Yes, I understand,” out of his mouth, though they sounded like wheezing sobs. 

“Okay,” Aidan exhaled. “Okay,” he repeated, trying to calm himself. 

Aidan’s footsteps echoed, leaving Malcolm incapacitated and struggling to breathe... alone.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was for Whumptober prompt No 8. WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO?  
>  **“Don’t Say Goodbye”** | Abandoned | Isolation


	7. The Cult Leader- Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta read by the amazing [ sonshineandshowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/works). Thank you <3
> 
> Check the end notes if you wish to know the prompts used in this chapter before reading it :)

**Chapter 7:** **The Cult Leader- Part 2**

Malcolm’s lungs ached. Breathing was a mighty feat: each intake was a miracle, each exhale was a wheeze. Even though Aidan’s hands were off his throat and the man wasn’t even in the same room, Malcolm still felt like he was slowly suffocating. 

The straps pinning him down felt tighter with every passing second like they were squeezing the life out of him. Malcolm twitched hard, gasping for air as he fought against those straps. Lightheaded with the lack of oxygen and useless excretion, he promptly lost unconsciousness. 

* * *

It was dark. Quiet. 

Voices started filtering through the dark. One voice. Silvery, sweet to the ear. _Safe_. 

_No._ Not safe. 

It was a sham. A front. Like a venus trap, attracting a fly with its sweet nectar and colorful smell before devouring it. 

Aidan’s voice. 

Fragments of his speech filtered through. “—rules and hierarchy……... one piece topples…….. Order.” 

Malcolm pried his heavy eyes open only for them to close again, unwilling to obey him. Groggy, he tried to remember what happened or focus on the voice speaking, but both actions seemed too hard to do. He just needed to rest for a few more minutes—just a quick nap. A few more minutes of blessed darkness before he had to face the nightmare he was trapped in. Malcolm was so sure he would wake up in better shape _or mercifully in bed._

With that conviction, Malcolm drifted away. 

* * *

The next time he came to, Malcolm was alone, or so he assumed because it was so quiet. 

There was no sound except that of his labored breathing. Malcolm blinked, feeling more faint and weak than before. His brain was shrouded with fog. What happened?

Instinctively he tried to move, to look himself over and check for injuries, but the tugs on his head and wrists reminded him that he was pinned down, at the mercy of a man who wanted him dead, who _almost killed him._

Malcolm swallowed the lump that rose to his throat when the foggy memories cleared up. He had managed to provoke Aidan so much that Aidan lost control, and in his anger, he had almost killed Malcolm. He must have lost consciousness after. 

Malcolm was shocked that his body had betrayed him, that he had lost consciousness in Aidan’s grip while he was enraged and out of control. It was a miracle that he woke up at all. 

Snippets of their last conversation passed through his mind. He was careless with his words, and it almost cost him his life. Malcolm had no idea how the man would react when he came back. He had to be prepared for round two, ready to try and connect with him once more using another strategy. 

Yet this determination was hindered by a weird sense of exhaustion. Granted, Malcolm had been put through the wringer the past _two days_? Somehow, he felt worse than before. The dull throbbing in his head was now loud clanging. His mind was slower, and his eyes unfocused. He couldn’t even shake the dizziness away. He registered a new tingling sensation in the crooks of his arms.

Shifting his eyes down, he found an IV connected to his left arm, blood dripping out of it. The realization of what was happening, of why he felt so faint, had his heart hammering inside his chest. Yet he felt too weak to even struggle, weakened by what he now knew was the blood loss. 

_They’re going to bleed me out._

The thought made his heart pound faster, eyes widen in terror, and the adrenaline surge through his veins—preparing him for a fight or flight situation despite being pinned down. If anything, it made it worse. Trying to fight the panic, Malcolm schooled himself to breathe slower, close his eyes, and think of a way out. Maybe he could call for Aidan and negotiate with him. 

Malcolm tried to call out, but his voice wouldn’t work. His throat felt like sandpaper—dry and aching. 

The noise must have alerted Aidan because he came anyway. He studied Malcolm with his keen, curious eyes, and Malcolm noticed that his calm demeanor was back. The man was back in control of his emotions. 

“Malcolm! You’re awake! I was beginning to think that I had pressed too much.” His eyebrows furrowed, feigning concern. “Can you breathe okay?”

Malcolm blinked a couple of times and hummed in response. He wouldn’t call it breathing _okay,_ but he wasn’t suffocating as he was before he lost consciousness.

“Water… _please,”_ he rasped out. 

Aidan pursed his lips. “Well, only because you asked so nicely.” 

He busied himself with something outside of his line of sight. Cold hands dropped onto Malcolm's right arm and he flinched, surprised

“Shh. It’s okay. You’re so tense, Malcolm,” Aidan observed as he worked, his voice bathed in amusement. He was connecting another drop into the already inserted IV. 

“Saline,” Aidan told him. “To make up for the lost blood. That’s equivalent to the water you asked for, too. It won’t help that dry throat, but that’s not my concern. My concern is that you won’t die of dehydration on my watch. Now, don’t say I’m not merciful.” He chuckled.

Malcolm only glared. 

“Heh, that’s settled,” Aidan continued. He finished and grabbed another chair to sit on. He edged his seat closer.

Malcolm gasped at Aidan’s cold hands on his skin. “What?...” he managed to rasp, and he tried to squirm away from the touch. 

“Relax. I won’t hurt you.” 

Malcolm felt pressure around the brand and winced. The gauze was removed, and the fresh air on the burnt skin. Mind-boggling terror gripped him over what Aidan planned to do. 

A soft, gentle touch. The exhale of relief. Malcolm whimpered as Aidan applied a cool ointment like salve on his burnt skin. It helped dull the pain, like a bucket of ice water to calm a blazing fire. Unconsciously, Malcolm relaxed under the touch… _until Aidan smirked._

“You really do have a poisonous tongue, Malcolm,” Aidan spoke as he worked on patching him up. “I was almost deceived by you. But it’s good. Now I know the extent of the dangers of letting you speak around my people. I’ll have to take certain measures to ensure this won’t happen again.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Malcolm rasped. 

“Ah, Malcolm. What is _this_ that you don’t want me to do?” Aidan asked him, his voice bathed with mockery. 

“Whatever it is you have planned next,” Malcolm swallowed.

“But I am taking care of you,” Aidan replied. He was now applying fresh gauze. “I’m cleaning your wound, and I’m giving you saline to compensate for the blood loss.”

Malcolm’s eyes traveled to his other arm, where a stream of his blood drained drop by drop. Aidan followed his eyes and laughed. 

“Ahh, that? That’s also for you. You're donating blood to your future self. You know, should you need a transfusion in the future or so. I don’t know what the future holds for you, but it’s always good to be prepared.” 

“ _Fuck you,”_ Malcolm scowled, but it only came out as a breathless whine. 

_“_ Is that how you repay people for their kindness?”

“This isn’t kindness. It’s … it’s torture.”

“It’s _atonement,”_ Aidan hissed. Malcolm heard the anger creeping back into his voice, saw it in his eyes. “ _Justice_. The son paying for the sins of his father. It’s poetic, even.”

Malcolm gritted his teeth. “Then let Ainsley go. She’s innocent. She was five when my father was arrested. She has nothing to do with this.”

“I’m afraid that won’t work,” the cult leader told him apologetically. “Both of you have to stay. It’s the rules.”

“Rules that _you_ made!” Malcolm argued back, his voice hoarse and aching. It didn’t matter because he needed to speak. His voice was his strongest tool. “This is nothing but a revenge play. You’re lying to those people, preying on their trauma.”

“I gave them a purpose! A reason to live.”

“By being accomplices to kidnapping and torture?”

“By helping me restore balance to the world. By getting rid of the evil that lurks in the shadows. The evil that is manifesting in your genes, dormant. Waiting for a chance to emerge.”

“Our father was a killer. Dr. Whitly was a killer. It doesn’t mean that we go around murdering people, too. **I am not my father,** ” Malcolm emphasized. 

“I know that, but one day you’ll be.”

“ _No.”_

“Save your breath, Malcolm. I am no longer prone to your deceptions.”

Malcolm struggled again. Anger and despair suffocated him. Small moves made him lightheaded. It was pathetic. He had no chance to escape, and soon he would suffer from withdrawal. _He would die here. “_ Aidan—“

“Let’s continue, shall we? Our time together is coming to an end. Now, before you so rudely interrupted me, I was speaking to you about the rules of your stay here.” 

Malcolm closed his eyes. _He had a chance to get to the man, and he failed. He shouldn’t have… but he did!_

A quick slap forced him to open his eyes. “Focus on me, Malcolm,” Aidan said impatiently. “I hate repeating myself.”

Malcolm glared at the man, made sure to put all his hatred in that one look. 

“For this purification process to work, you need to be in good shape. During your stay with us, we will try to keep you as healthy as possible. Your mind should be present as well, so you will be getting your meds every morning.” 

Malcolm forgot his anger and knitted his brows. _He knew about his meds. How long had they been watching them?_

It didn’t matter now. At least Malcolm wouldn’t have to worry about withdrawal—it meant more chances of escape. 

“Ohh, Malcolm,” Aidan mocked. “That look in your eyes... _Hope_? You think you have more chances now that you won’t be a withdrawing mess? Hah! A fool’s hope.” He cupped Malcolm’s face with two fingers and stared into his eyes. Malcolm glowered back. 

“Hmm,” Aidan mused after a few moments of tense silence. “I really don’t like that look. It’s... _disrespectful_. A smart man would know when he lost. Something tells me you’re not a smart man, Malcolm.”

“If you think so, then why do you feel the need to tie me down. Why are you so afraid I will talk to your followers? Is it because you know I could convince them to—“

Aidan’s booming laugh cut him off. He got up and yanked the saline line out of Malcolm’s arm. Malcolm gasped but didn't dare speak, afraid that any word he said would lead to this man squeezing the life out of him again. 

Aidan didn’t stop there. He unhooked the blood drip as well and didn’t bother to stop the blood that still oozed out of Malcolm’s arm. In fast and aggressive movements, he unlocked the straps holding Malcolm down one by one until he was free. 

“C’mon now,” he baited him. “Show me what you’ll do.” 

Malcolm blinked, trying to process what just happened, trying to think of the best way to approach this. 

“I said, _show me._ ” Aidan yanked him from the chair and pushed him up. Muscles stiff with disuse, body weakened by the blood loss, and vision blurry and unfocused, Malcolm couldn’t even hold himself up. He sank to the floor with a loud thud. 

The world was spinning, his stomach threatened to empty its meager contents, and his body screamed at him from the change in position. Blood rushed back into numb and cramped limbs, and it felt like being stabbed by a thousand pins and needles. Malcolm did his best to stay conscious; his entire focus was on himself and not his surroundings. Above him, Aidan growled, but the words didn’t register. _He just needed a minute to himself._

Pain exploded in his side, and he cried out. Aidan had kicked him. Malcolm shrunk into a fetal position, protecting himself, preparing for more blows. 

None came. 

He remained on the floor, panting, forehead resting on the cold stone. Slowly the world slowed down. Slowly he regained his senses. Slowly he opened his eyes, dared to look up. 

Aidan towered over him, watching him. He pushed Malcolm with the tip of his shoes, flipping him on his back. “Pathetic,” Aidan spat, but the insult was echoed by his father’s voice in his head. 

Sprawled on his back, Malcolm said nothing. He wanted to argue that Aidan had been bleeding him, draining him, but what good would an argument do. It would only bring more pain. He should save his strength—whatever was left of it, anyway.

Aidan kneeled all of his weight into Malcolm's chest, more to cause pain than to actually hold him in place. The pressure made it hard to breathe and sent Malcolm into a violent fit of coughing. His face dark, voice bathed in rage, Aidan whispered. “Like I said. Tying you down was only to make you uncomfortable. Don’t mistake this as a weakness from my side. I like seeing you squirm.” He pressed his knee in even harder, and Malcolm whimpered, unable to draw full breaths. 

“As for your voice. I’d think carefully before I talked to anyone if I were you.” He cupped Malcolm’s face and squeezed. In a show of defiance, Malcolm tried to wrench his head away from Aidan’s hold but was unsuccessful.

“I am exercising my mercy with you, Malcolm. But that can change at any time. There are more choices and privileges that I can take away from you. Don't push me to find out what they are."

Malcolm looked into the man’s sadistic eyes and wondered: were those tendencies always present, or did his father break that man so thoroughly that he took away his humanity as well? He closed his eyes, refusing to drink more of the sadistic gleam pouring from the man’s eyes. The calm, educated man from before was gone. The silver-tongued charismatic cult leader who charmed many men and women to follow him was no longer there either. 

What stared at Malcolm was a hungry wolf. 

An animal.

A monster.

One just like his father. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for Whumptober prompts No 30. NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM? **Wound Reveal** | Ignoring an Injury | Internal Organ Injury  
> And
> 
> No 10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED **Blood Loss** | Internal Bleeding | **Trail of Blood**


	8. The Purification Serum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!  
> No, I didn't forget about this fic! Actually, I have lots of updates lined up because it needs some love <3  
> Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> As usual, you can check the end notes if you wish to know the prompts used in this chapter before reading it :)

**Chapter 8: The Purification Serum **

When Aidan left, Malcolm was half carried-half dragged back to his cell. He let himself be manhandled all the way without putting up any efforts to struggle. Keeping his feet under him was a feat in itself. He felt weak and light-headed, and _just how much blood had Aidan drained?_

When he was back in his corner, and his chains were locked again, Mark showed up—or maybe he was always there, and Malcolm hadn’t noticed... he wasn’t very sure. The man gave him a chocolate bar and some bottled juice to make up for the blood loss, and then they all filtered out. The loud clang of their cell’s iron door made him flinch. But, in a way, he could finally relax because they were alone at last! 

Apart from her horrified gasp when she first saw him, Ainsley had been silent through it all. She barely made a sound as they dragged him in, locked him up, and left. However, the second they were left alone, she was at her tether’s end, bombarding Malcolm with questions. She wanted to know what happened with Aidan, everything he and Malcolm said, and why he looked as pale as a ghost. Had Aidan hurt him again? Did he drug him? and if Malcolm had managed to talk his way out of this. 

It didn’t take much profiling to see what his sister was doing—apparently, they both had the same defense mechanism when dealing with stressful situations. Back when John Watkins had him, Malcolm felt scared, helpless, and his only weapon was to profile the man before him. It gave him a modicum of control. Ainsley hiding behind her reporter persona and her demands to know every single detail is exactly the same. Even though her voice was steady and business-like, Ainsley couldn’t hide the way her eyes were overpouring with fear and concern rather than their usual gleam of curiosity. It was why, despite being so nauseous and dizzy, Malcolm had pushed himself and tried to tell her what happened—a small something to ease her fears. Choosing his words carefully, he told her of their encounter while keeping out the part about Aidan almost suffocating him. The small frown she had when he glossed over this part had told him that she knew he was hiding something from her—Ainsley knew his tells just like he knew hers. Yet, she didn’t push him, and for that, Malcolm was grateful.

He quietly nibbled on the chocolate bar he was given and even drank up the whole juice bottle—it tasted weird, and it was surely drugged, but it didn’t matter. Malcolm knew that if they wanted to drug him, they could storm here, hold him down, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop them. Taking the drugs willingly still gave him the illusion of control. Plus, Malcolm was parched, and he needed that sugar in his bloodstream. His head felt heavy by the last sip, and not so long after, Malcolm found himself drifting off.

* * *

When Malcolm finally woke up, screaming and drenched in sweat, it was already the following day. He could tell because there was another tray with his breakfast, a water bottle, and a plastic cup with his pills in it. So Aidan wasn’t lying about the medications, he thought numbly.

Malcolm rubbed at his eyes and tried to get his body to move. It was slow going, and his muscles ached with every move, but he bit his lips and forced himself to do it. The second he was up, he noticed that Ainsley wasn’t in the room.

His heart skipped a beat. Then another. No! No, no stupid… _Stupid!_ How could he just sleep and leave her unprotected and alone? How did he let them take her away? 

Malcolm pulled at his restraints in a useless effort to free himself. He was no longer in pain, no longer nauseous—the adrenaline had flooded his system giving him energy and strength he thought he no longer had. _He had to do something to save her._

Heart hammering, blood roaring in his ears, and pulsating behind his eyes, Malcolm started shaking. His breaths morphed into frantic, panicked gasps. The air was getting too thin, and he felt like he’s suffocating. Malcolm was having a panic attack, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. 

Just as he was about to start hyperventilating, he heard footsteps echoing outside and then the jingling of chains. Impatient to wait much longer, Malcolm called out for the person outside. “Ainsley? Ainsley, is that you?”

“Malcolm, you’re up!” Her voice called back. Malcolm almost collapsed in relief. She was still there, and she sounded okay. _Unhurt._

“Yeah, I’m awake,” he replied back, but his voice was so thick and choked with emotion he doubted that she heard him. 

A few moments later, Ainsley walked back escorted by the lady from before, and her chains were locked again. Malcolm looked at her, ensuring that she was, indeed, okay, and was beyond relieved when he did. His sister was unharmed—the fear that fueled him drained out just as quickly, and Malcolm sank back to the floor. 

She was taken for a toilet break. _Of course,_ Malcolm thought—it was logical. Still, when he woke up, and she wasn’t there, the panic took over. He was so thankful that she was okay, though, that for a second, he forgot what awaited him next. Malcolm had tried not to think too much about it since they brought him back. It made it easier to wait. The last thing Aidan had said before he left him was: "Get some rest. Your atonement in front of my followers begins tomorrow." 

Today. 

His escort came next, and he was taken to relieve himself. The restroom was exactly ten steps away from their cell. It was a tiny room, with a toilet and a small washbasin. Malcolm was given three minutes, and he spent two of them trying to find a weapon or an exit. He couldn’t find any. 

After breakfast and the restroom breaks, Aidan paid them a visit. Ainsley had once more curled on herself in the corner when he had entered the cell—it ached Malcolm to see her like that, and he would have done anything to take all of her pains away. Aidan stood before him, and his face was back to its usual piousness. There were no hints of the monster who hurt and baited him the day before. “Today is an important day,” he told him. “It marks day one of your purification process, Malcolm.”

Despite himself, Malcolm’s right hand started shaking, and he clenched it in the hopes that Aidan wouldn’t see him. If the man noticed it, he never commented on it. Instead, he was eyeing Malcolm with morbid curiosity—he wanted him to say something. Knowing that there were no words he could say to change Aidan’s mind, Malcolm just glared back. 

“Don’t look at me like that. You need to purge The Surgeon’s blood from your body before you die. You’ll thank me later.” 

“Pretty sure I won’t,” Malcolm muttered. It was the first thing he had said since their last encounter. Aidan raised a questioning eyebrow while an amused smile hovered over his face. 

“We will see about that,” Aidan dismissed. “Now, to show you the extent of our commitment, we hope to have you be part of the process. Your active participation is essential. Without your feedback, we would be working blind.”

This time, it was Malcolm’s turn to be confused. “I’m not sure I follow.” The words came out slow.

“I mean, you of all people know if The Surgeon’s blood still courses through your blood or not. So you’ll be our guide."

“I don’t—”

“What I mean is, I’ll ask you before every session if you think you’re pure or not. Once you tell me that you feel purified, it will all stop. Just like that.”

Malcolm knitted his eyebrows. He was sure something was missing. Something he wouldn't like. “And then what?” He dared to ask.

“Oh, I thought it was fairly simple to understand,” Aidan said nonchalantly. “Then once you admit the process is over, it’ll be time for you to finally die.”

Malcolm gritted his teeth. This time when his right hand trembled, no amount of self control or clenching was going to hide that. Aidan’s eyes traveled down to his hand, where it shook and rattled the chains, and said nothing. His amused expression spoke volumes, though.

“And after you die, we can move on to Ms. Whitly’s purification.”

Ainsley whimpered at the same time that Malcolm spat a “ _fuck you._ ” 

Malcolm stared into Aidan’s eyes. There was no hint of a joke. He wasn't messing with them—he was really going to make Malcolm choose to torture himself. Aidan knew that Malcolm would never die and leave Ainsley alone—if he could help it. So this was his plan all along.

If anyone questioned it, he would say Malcolm _asked_ for it. Aidan would tell them that he was asked if he had had enough and that _Malcolm had refused to stop._ It’s genius, really. 

“So,” Aidan clapped his hands excitedly. “We don’t have time. The people are in the hall waiting, and we need to get moving. Tell me, Malcolm. Do you feel that you’re already purified?”

Malcolm clenched his jaw, dug his nails so hard into his palms he almost drew blood. He had no choice, he reminded himself. He could say yes and die, knowing that he would be leaving Ainsley to the same fate, or he could say no and have them hurt him over and over and _over again_. 

“I am not,” he hissed while staring Aidan in the eyes. He tried to muster all the hate and loathing he has for the man and channels them into that look. 

“ _No,”_ Ainsley whispered. She moved away from the wall, scrambled all the way towards him—ignoring the fact that Aidan was still in the room—and tried to catch his eyes. “Malcolm, no! _Don’t!_ Please!” 

Malcolm wanted to reassure her, but somehow he couldn’t find his voice. He couldn’t even meet her eyes.

“Malcolm, are you crazy?” Ainsley shrieked when he wouldn’t look at her. “You can't do this! You can’t!”

Aidan turned around and motioned for the men who came with him. “Take him. We have to start,” and then he walked out. 

Malcolm’s chains were unlocked, and he was ushered out of the room. His only solace was that his sister wouldn’t see what Aidan had planned for him. At least, her pain would be spared, and that was all that mattered at this point. Malcolm allowed himself to be pushed, numbly walking where they told him to, barely even struggling. He was like a puppet moved by invisible strings, and he had no control over anything anymore. 

They took him to the same induction room from before, chained him on the altar, and left him there. Malcolm found himself looking at the ceiling once more. A hysterical laugh bubbled inside him and escaped his lips. This was a nightmare. There was no other way to explain it. The number of people in the hall was less than the last time. Malcolm assumed they were busy with other things—work, most probably. A community like this needs to operate on chores and ranks, or else it would fall. 

Aidan filtered into view and double checked his restraints. “We have to make sure you won’t hurt yourself,” he explained. “The effects of the drug can be quite extreme.”

Malcolm’s stomach sank even lower. “What drug?” He whispered because he couldn’t speak any louder without hiding the tremor in his voice. 

“It’s a cocktail I have been working on. Something to purge your blood. I called it the ‘devil’s poison’. No need to panic, though. Bit of advice, the faster your heart beats, the stronger the effects will be.” Aidan winked then continued to explain. “You’ll stay here until the drug does its purpose and washes away from your system, and then we will take you back to your cell.”

“No! Aidan, you don’t have to do this,” Malcolm thrashed uselessly as Aidan disappeared from view. A moment later, he came back with a syringe. 

“That’s the devil in you speaking,” Aidan spoke up, so the people watching them could hear him. “You’ll thank me later when you’re rid of him.”

Aidan’s warm hands tapped at the crook of his inner elbow, and Malcolm flinched. “Aidan, please. You don’t know how it’ll react with my meds. It might kill me,” he reasoned with the cult leader, trying to use his cards against him. “I might die before you finish your purification process. It’ll all go to waste. You and your people won’t rid the world of my evil.”

“You have a point,” Aidan mused for a moment, during which Malcolm held his breath—too scared to hope. “But we’ll never know if we didn’t try, right?”

“No!”

“I’m sure it’ll be okay. _Plus,_ if you did die, we still have Ms. Ainsley. She’ll do.”

“Don’t—don’t...don’t you dare touch her!” Malcolm shrieked hysterically.

“Then try your best not to die.”

Malcolm felt the prick of the needle as it broke his skin, and in a second, it was over. 

“May your atonement be successful,” Aidan planted his thumb on Malcolm’s forehead. “Now, it begins.”

* * *

Malcolm’s body convulsed, rocking on the altar. His fingers and toes were twitching uncontrollably, and the pain coursing through his veins was like fire, spreading inch by inch, claiming him. His world was nothing but the agony that flowed through him, eating him alive. He wanted to die already, _yearned_ for the second all this would stop. 

Another spasm shook his entire frame. Malcolm’s back arched, and he screamed at the top of his lungs—a scream so loud it was fit to wake the dead. Yet, no matter how desperate he sounded, no one came to his rescue. His voice was raw from the cries of help that were never answered. His eyes were dry and swollen—Malcolm had no more tears left to cry. His body was covered in a layer of sweat, and yet he was so cold. So cold despite the fire burning him from the inside. 

Malcolm would give anything to escape this. If anyone was watching him, he didn’t care. If someone talked to him, he couldn’t listen. And this wasn’t even all of it—he couldn’t _see_. The poison did not only burn his insides, but it had also _blinded him._ The terror of first opening his eyes and seeing nothing had sent Malcolm in a full blown panic attack. Aidan warned him that panic would increase the symptoms, but he couldn’t help it—he opened his eyes, and no matter how much he squinted and stared, all he saw was darkness. His heart had started beating so hard, and soon after, the hell loop began, and he had no way of stopping it. The adrenaline and the poison coursing through his veins were making his heart beat so fast that there was no chance of him passing out. He was trapped in his own personal hell with no way out but death. 

The fit subdued, and he fell back, twitching in his restraints—which were so strong they never gave. Malcolm gasped, relieved that he could breathe again. The pain was back to its baseline, the lowest threshold of the hell cycle he was trapped in. It started with a numbing, tingling feeling, then suddenly it ignited a fire in his veins, slowly burning him from the inside until it finally ended in an eruption of white-hot lava. And repeat. He lost count of the times it happened. He didn’t know how much more he could take before his heart gave out under the strain. 

As the tingling began to lessen, Malcolm knew the second stage of the poison would kick. Something told him he wouldn’t make it past this cycle. In his desperation, he started sobbing again, begging for it to stop—he screamed for help _again._

He tried to brace himself for the pain that would come, although it had never helped ease the shock the previous times. 

But then, the second phase _didn’t_ start. 

Instead, he felt his mind slow down. The pain didn’t increase in intensity, but it was getting fainter and fainter. Breathing became easier—it no longer felt that a brick wall was mounted on his chest. Malcolm’s heart was no longer hammering inside his chest. 

One thought sprung to his mind: he’s going to die. There was no other explanation as to why everything was slowing down. The fact that he might have survived the drug was locked so far down in his mind that it didn’t dare surface. 

But… he didn’t die.

Sound came back. Slowly his vision cleared enough to make out the silhouette towering over him. Malcolm blinked, tried to focus, but it didn’t work. This must be the end.

The silhouette above him was talking, but the words wouldn’t register. Malcolm tried to speak, but his throat hurt. It felt dry as sand. He strained his ears to hear, and through the fog of pain and agony, the words “over, and made it” filtered through.

It was then that Malcolm let go. After hours of unfiltered agony, he was finally allowed to slip into the blessed nothingness. 

Away from this nightmare. Away from the cruelty of the man who held them. 

Away just for a little while. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for Whumptober prompts No 18. PANIC! AT THE DISCO  
>  **Panic Attacks** | Phobias | Paranoia  
> And  
> No 20. TOTO, I HAVE A FEELING WE’RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE  
> Lost | **Field Medicine** | Medieval


	9. Time out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 9 and 10 were both co-authored with Hannah, but they are actually also gifted to her <3 
> 
> Your support and your ideas are the reason this fic is better, and I love you!
> 
> As usual, you can check the end notes if you wish to know the prompts used in this chapter before reading it :)
> 
> Please enjoy <3 We're jumping right into the action with this one!

**Chapter 9:** **Time Out**

It all happened in a blink of an eye. Four men stormed the cell and pried Malcolm’s hands off. The girl ran away, screaming hysterically in the corridors. 

Malcolm was roughly pushed to the floor, but he was up in a second. “I wasn’t trying to hurt her!” He pleaded to try to explain, and all he got was a punch that sent him down again. 

A taser was shoved in his face—a threat. 

“Stay down!” One of the men growled.

“Call Aidan.” Another repeated, and the third man went running. The fourth stood over Ainsley as if they thought she could magically break free from her chains and attack them. 

Malcolm remained on the floor. In truth, he barely had any energy to do anything. Whatever surge of energy and hope induced him to act this way had dissipated the second the girl started screaming bloody murder. He would have been drowning in despair had the situation didn't escalate this much. Now he had but a few minutes to bask in fear of what the consequences would be.

More pain—that was guaranteed. A new lesson from Aidan—probable. Separated from Ainsley? The thought was enough to chill the blood in his veins. 

Mercifully, he didn’t have much time to run wild with his catastrophic theories because Aidan came. Eyes puffy, hair disheveled, and clearly woken up because of him, the man hurried into the cell. 

Right away, two of the men pulled Malcolm to his knees and kept him there—their strong rough hands making it impossible to shift or move. 

Aidan was ignoring him for the moment, no doubt playing the part he had rehearsed many times before—the caring leader. “Did he hurt her? Is she okay?” Aidan asked, letting a hint of concern color his tone.

“Mercifully not,” one of the men replied. “Katie was smart, and she started screaming for help the second he attacked her. We were performing our regular chores and heard her screams, so we came to her aid.”

“Mmmm,” Aidan said thoughtfully. “Does she think she’s been poisoned?”

“I don’t know. He barely had time to speak to her.”

“True,” Aidan mused. He looked at Malcolm, who gave him a defiant glare before he continued. “However, I need to make sure of it myself. Her safety is very important, and he might have poisoned her mind already.” He turned to the man looking over Ainsley. “Go check on Katie, and ask her to come to my office after breakfast. Make sure she follows the protocols as usual and to not be scared.”

The man nodded and hurried out. 

Aidan turned back to Malcolm, and for a second, the profiler caught the satisfied gleam in his eyes. It was gone before he even had a chance to blink. Knowing that things would only get worse, Malcolm tried to still act strong and defiant for his sister. She didn’t have to see that he was terrified and that he had acted recklessly because he couldn’t undergo another purification session. _No._

So, he stared at the man who held all the keys to his freedom, and he glared. 

“I warned you, Malcolm,” Aidan crouched down so he could look directly into his eyes. “But you didn’t listen. What happens to you next. That’s on you.” Aidan stood up and rubbed the dust from his pants before looking at the two men keeping Malcolm restrained. “Take him to my study. Make sure he’s gagged before you leave. We don’t want any more... _incidents_.”

Then he walked out, leaving his men to follow his orders.

“It’s a mistake. I didn’t want to hurt her. Wait, let me—” was all Malcolm had time to say before one of them shoved a piece of cloth between his lips, silencing yet another desperate attempt at getting through to anyone. 

The cloth tasted vile—a mixture of oil and dirt—and Malcolm spat it out instantly. His punishment was a square punch to his abdomen that made him double over. Ainsley was screaming in the corner, but her screams were drowned out by the roaring pain in his stomach. A hand fisted in his hair and pulled his head so far back it hurt. Then the cloth was shoved back in. 

“Spit it out again, and see what happens next,” the man threatened before pushing Malcolm’s head down with a force, sending him to the ground. This man was not only following orders, the profiler in him observed. He had a connection to the girl—it was why he was so mad about Malcolm hurting her. A need to protect and not just blind duty to follow orders. Somehow this made things even worse. 

Malcolm wished he had the energy to fight back as they pulled him up and dragged him to Aidan’s study. He was mortified at what had happened and knew that fighting was useless at this stage. Not when the men holding him believed he meant to harm one of their own. Not when one of them had a connection to the woman. Fighting was useless, and Malcolm had to pick his fights. (Not that the last battle he picked had yielded any favorable results. In fact, he was going to pay for that one now.) 

So, he hadn’t tried to spit the gag a second time. Malcolm forced himself to breathe through the cloth and not think about it in a feeble effort to not activate his gagging reflex. It wasn’t until they had locked him in that horrible chair again and left him alone that he finally spat it out and took in a deep breath. The foul taste was still in his mouth, and he yearned for a glass of water to drive it away—something he knew Aidan would never provide. 

Subconsciously, he tried to shift in the chair, even though he knew he couldn’t move an inch. It was his second time in that chair, and it didn’t feel any better than the first. Malcolm tried not to think how many more times he’d get strapped here if he couldn’t find a way out soon. He closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing, to travel with his thoughts to a safe and better place. 

A place of peace and safety.

_Purification._

I can create a place of peace and safety no matter where I am. 

_I’ll kill your little sister slowly and have you watch._

_No-!_ His eyes snapped open, and he let out a harsh exhale. Malcolm cursed and stopped trying. He felt scared and tired and _so defeated,_ there was no way he’d succeed. The despair he was feeling had robbed him of any modicum of energy he had had before. He was failing at every step. Failing _Ainsley_. 

Thoughts of the past hour ran through his mind. 

He’d woken up in a haze, haunted by the nightmares and the reality of his situation, unable to tell which was real and which was the exaggeration. It had been two days since Aidan strapped him to the altar and pumped his veins with that poison. Two days since his body ignited in fire, and his life erupted in its flames. Two days were spent in a haze of pain and nausea and fear of the next session. He barely had enough energy to take his pills, force some of his breakfast down, and make a very dizzy and unstable walk to the restroom. Malcolm had been rendered completely useless—a husk, a host with no life, aimlessly waiting for the hours to pass. 

The horrible session had left Malcolm in morbid horror of the next one. The side effects had cemented that fear. 

Yet if Aidan came again and asked if he was purified, Malcolm would have to grit his teeth and say “no”. He would have to willingly undergo this torture again. Because if he didn’t, Ainsley would be next, and he would never let anyone touch her—not if he could help it. Perhaps that was the cruelest thing that came out of this arrangement—the fact that he was the one making it happen, that he was the one who was asking for the pain. 

When he woke up this morning, and he found that he could actually get up on his own, he had almost cried. His head was no longer hammering, his body was no longer numb, and the constant throbbing pain had actually subdued to an overall dull ache. He had been so grateful and yet so scared—if he felt well enough to stand, then Aidan would be paying them a visit soon. He was running out of time to do something, and Malcolm would do just _anything_ so he wouldn’t go back on that altar another time. 

When the breakfast girl had walked in, a desperate thought had formed in his mind. As usual, she had the headphones on, blasting loud music so she wouldn’t hear him if he spoke.

Malcolm had moved in her field of vision and tried to speak to her. He knew she had been warned not to talk to him, but human curiosity was something he could exploit. Yet, she wouldn’t even look him in the eye. Just how much fear had Aidan instilled in her mind for her to fear and avoid him this strongly? It was probably a sign to stop, but Malcolm wasn’t in his right mind, and desperation was a terrible thing. 

When she came back to pick up the breakfast trays, he had knocked her headphones off her ears. Her eyes had snapped up, startled at first and then horrified a second later. Eyes wide, mouth gaped open, the woman was transfixed enough for him to start speaking. But the second she heard his voice, her mind had kicked into gear, and she scurried away. 

So, he _held_ her hand to stop her, to make her wait and listen. That’s when she started screaming—screeching at the top of her lungs as if he’d burned her. 

The reaction was too extreme that for a second, _he_ was the one transfixed. The next thing he knew, four men were in the room prying his hands off her and pushing him to the ground. The way he held her hand was very gentle. He had never meant to hurt her, never meant to scare her. 

He just wanted someone to _listen to him!_

Desperate men do stupid things. The profiler in him was ashamed for not reading her expressions correctly. Now he was paying the price. 

The sound of footsteps alerted him that someone was here. It was probably Aidan. Malcolm tensed in anticipation of what was to come. He had given Aidan a chance to hurt him more. The man must be beside himself with happiness. 

“Malcolm,” Aidan had announced when his footsteps became prominent. He had probably just entered the threshold beyond the red curtain. “I want to say I am disappointed at what you did, but I’d be lying if I say I didn’t expect it.” 

Malcolm swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to speak. “You know I never meant to hurt her. I just wanted to talk.”

Aidan didn’t reply. The rustling of equipment and clinking of metal was the only sound in the room for a few minutes. With his head immobilized, Malcolm had no way of knowing what was happening behind him; he only had his vivid imagination to supply the details. Malcolm knew Aidan was building up the tension and purposely scaring him. He was ashamed to admit that the tactic was working. 

After what felt like an eternity, Aidan’s amused face floated into his field of vision. Unlike this morning, he was well-groomed and as composed as usual. The giddy expression he wore stole Malcolm’s breath away. 

“Oh, I know what you wanted to do,” Aidan told him. “You wanted to flip her to your side. Get into her mind like you’re so famously known to do, right?”

Malcolm grit his teeth and glared silently.

“You see, I have been waiting for you to do this, Malcolm. I knew you would do it. I bet you didn’t expect her reaction, though, did you?” He chuckled good-humoredly at the joke Malcolm was obviously missing. “Katie is one of my most faithful followers. Her fear of you is so deeply rooted that there was no way you’d ever get through to her. It’s why I put her on breakfast duty.”

Malcolm’s face had lost thirty shades as he heard Aidan speak. He was playing a lost game from the start. Even worse, he had done exactly what Aidan wanted him to do. _Stupid!_

“Of course, now you’ve angered her doting husband too, and the word of what you’ve done will travel through to the rest of them soon. The devil’s son tried to hurt her. I told you before. A smart man should know when they have lost.”

Aidan stopped and looked at Malcolm to say something, but the latter couldn’t find his voice to say anything. When the silence stretched, Aidan shrugged and moved away. 

“Now, you must pay for hurting her. You should be punished, and they should see that as well. They must be assured that we are more than capable of containing the devil’s son and that **_I_ **will keep them safe. I warned you last time you were in this chair that I could take more of your privileges if you were ungrateful. Looks like you aren’t a very good listener.”

Malcolm’s heart started thundering against his chest. He tried to struggle against the restraints—an action born out of fear rather than logic. 

“Let’s talk about your punishment,” Aidan’s voice traveled through the room, clearly enjoying this. “I think it is fitting to take away your voice, Malcolm. Maybe if you stop speaking, then you’ll start listening to me.” 

And it felt like Aidan’s words had driven a dagger through his chest. Malcolm couldn’t breathe. 

_Breathe._ He coaxed his body. 

_In... and out._

_Breathe. Focus._

_In...and out._

_You’ve lost every battle so far, don’t lose your dignity too._

_In...and out._

On the fourth try, Malcolm had regained a fraction of his composure. Fear and panic would do him no good. He shouldn’t make it that easy for the man to inflict mental anguish on him. Aidan could hurt him physically, and Malcolm wouldn’t be able to stop him. But he would be damned if he made it just as easy to torture him mentally as well. 

Malcolm cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly loud and clear. “Are you going to cut my tongue? Sew my mouth shut?”

“Oh no, no, Malcolm.” Aidan was taken aback for a second. “We’re not savages. There are far easier ways to keep you quiet.” He came back, and this time he was holding a clear plastic tube—Malcolm has seen a tube like this before. 

“What is this?” He eyed the tube suspiciously and squirmed despite himself. He knew exactly what this tube was, and his stomach had sunk on the realization of what was to come. 

“Don’t worry. It’s an NG tube for feeding. You know, seeing as you won’t be using your mouth for some time.” Aidan dismissed.

Some time. Some _time._ How long was he planning to keep Malcolm quiet? _How_ was he going to keep him quiet? 

Aidan got ready to insert the tube, and Malcolm started thrashing helplessly. “ _No—Don’t! No! Please.”_

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing; it’ll barely hurt.” 

Having no way to escape this, Malcolm closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. Anything else. Ironically, his mind brought him to the same experience with an NG tube. It wasn’t a pleasant memory, but it was oddly comforting.

It was twenty years ago. He had been under-eating after his father’s arrest, and no amount of persuasion could help him keep his food down. His doctor had suggested they use a nasogastric tube for a couple of weeks. Although the whole process was inconvenient, Malcolm had Gil and his mother by his side. The nurse was very gentle as she helped insert the tube in. Gil had held his hand through it all. It was a vast difference between that setting and this one. 

Malcolm winced when Aidan was done. It felt uncomfortable but not horrible. He could definitely live with it. It was the need for such a tube that was freaking him out. 

“Good,” Aidan bent down and fished something out. A muzzle. The moment he saw it, Malcolm’s face crumpled, and he instantly started thrashing. There was no way he’d wear this thing. 

“No!”

Aidan clicked his tongue as he moved towards him and started adjusting the muzzle’s straps. “Stop fighting. You’re only wearing yourself down.”

“No! No, get _off_ me. _Aah arrgghh”_ Malcolm’s insults and frantic pleading were stopped by the muzzle Aidan was installing. The thick leather straps forced his jaw shut and prevented him from speaking. With his entire body immobilized, he couldn’t even fight—the _fight_ was over before it began. Aidan released the chair’s leather strap around his head and quickly started buckling the muzzle from behind, finalizing the process and dooming Malcolm to a long and humiliating silence.

“There,” Aidan said when he was done. He stepped away, no doubt to admire his work. 

Malcolm stopped thrashing, and he tried to take in his new state. There were no sounds in the room apart from his loud and harsh breaths. His chest rose and fell frantically as he tried to grasp what just happened. 

His vision blurred, and after a few seconds, he realized that the world was out of focus because of his tears. Tears of humiliation sprung to his eyes at the realization of what had been done to him. A pathetic whine was all the sound he could make. 

He could see Aidan relishing in his pain, staring at him with a curious and satisfied expression. Malcolm was feeding the man’s sadism with his panicked reaction, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it. There was no amount of coaxing strong enough to stop him from flushing or from tearing up. He had been reduced to an animal, forced into silence by leather straps and buckles. Silenced so he could no longer save himself. Silenced for God only knew how long.

Then it all clicked—the NG tube and comments about not using his mouth. If Aidan felt the need to install this tube, it meant this muzzle wouldn’t be coming off anytime soon. Aidan had been planning this. In his sadistic scheme, he knew Malcolm would try to sway someone to his side, and he _had a muzzle_ ready for that purpose. 

Malcolm swallowed all the tears and the shame he felt, and he glared at the monster standing before him. What he couldn’t say, he channeled it into that look—the anger, the hate—all of it.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Aidan smiled. “You disobeyed me, so I took your voice. It was a privilege that you didn’t deserve. It might not be permanent, though. The decision will need reassessment later, based on your behavior and my feelings about the matter. Ahh, and of course, the safety of the people here. But for the time being...” Aidan shrugged and didn’t continue. The meaning was clear. 

Malcolm glowered at him and wished that the ‘ _Fuck you!’_ he wanted to shout but couldn’t was shining enough from his eyes for Aidan to understand. 

“Okay,” Aidan clapped his hands together and walked away. “Now it’s time to showcase your punishment. Joshua wants to make sure you paid for hurting Katie. The others need assurances that you’ll be kept in line from now on.”

Malcolm’s stomach plummeted. Aidan left him for a few minutes, during which Malcolm’s brain raced over all the possible scenarios of what would happen next. 

No less than three minutes later, Aidan walked back in, holding something metallic—chains? The clink of metal as he walked was too loud... like a booming canon—a warning bell of what was to come. Aidan put them away, though, and he proceeded in untying Malcolm. 

Malcolm had been planning to attack or struggle when Aidan untied him, but the truth was: the NG tube was annoying him, the muzzle was obscuring his peripheral vision, and with his jaw snapped shut, breathing was even harder than ever. Deciding to save what was left of his strength, Malcolm stood there numbly, waiting for what was to come.

And it was a mistake because the second he laid his eyes on the source of the metallic sound, he wanted to run. 

_No! Now,_ **_this_ ** _was a bridge too far._

He found himself running before he even registered it. His muscles were weak and numb from being restrained, his vision was spotty, and he still couldn’t breathe well. Yet, the fear of what Aidan wanted him to look like was enough fuel. Malcolm made it out of Aidan’s hobby room and into his study before Aidan slammed into him and drove him to the ground. Malcolm struggled against the weight above him, but he was no match for it. 

_No! No, get off me!_ He tried to scream but couldn’t. Instead, frantic grunts and growls tore out of his lungs as _Aidan_ wrestled with him on the floor. Other people materialized in the room, and then he was quickly subdued. His hands were wrestled into the cuffs Aidan had dangled before him—which was fine! He was _totally_ okay with them. The cuffs weren’t the reason he’d run from the room like a headless chicken—the belt they were attached to _was_. 

Their hands were off him, and he was pulled to his feet when he was secured. Now Malcolm stood with a belt around his middle, and his hands locked in the handcuffs at his front. Just like his father. The similarity almost made him throw up. Not only was he being tortured to pay for his father’s sins, but they had forced him to _be_ his father, to look like him, even.

Aidan had no idea what he had unknowingly done or of the mental anguish, he was forcing Malcolm to endure. _Or maybe he knew exactly what he was doing..._

Malcolm found himself hyperventilating. There was a horrible wheezing keening sound roaring in his ears, and it took him some time to realize the sound was coming from him. He jerked his hands violently in the cuffs, trying something he knew won’t work. His vision blurred again, a mist of tears shining through his eyes as the helplessness of the situation had settled in. 

They’ve taken everything from him. His voice, his ability to eat and drink, to even move his hands. They trapped him inside his body. 

No, _inside his father’s body._

A cathartic, muted scream of despair was ripped out of his throat before he stopped. 

Stopped _everything_. 

Like a puppet whose strings had been snapped, Malcolm went still. Staring vacantly at his captor, he tried to cast his mind in another place. Somewhere else. Anywhere else but this horrible reality. 

When Aidan held his elbow and guided him out, Malcolm didn’t struggle. He followed without resistance, obediently walking next to the man who reveled in his pain. Malcolm and Aidan walked alone, just the two of them until they reached another big room he hadn’t seen before.

The door was opened, and they walked in. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for Whumptober prompts  
> No 24. YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE **Forced Mutism** | Blindfolded | Sensory Deprivation  
> And  
> No 29. I THINK I NEED A DOCTOR  
>  **Intubation** | Emergency Room | Reluctant Bedrest

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to [Hannah_BTWM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannah_BWTM/pseuds/Hannah_BWTM) for helping me brainstorm. It wouldn’t be the same without you ♥️♥️.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it. Let me know if you did! :D


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